Silencio
by Yessica-N
Summary: It's never too late for the past to come back and haunt you. Papyrus finds this out the hard way.
1. Chapter 1

**At long last we can get this show on the road. I've been fiddling with this AU for ages now so I'm glad I finally get to work on it properly.**

* * *

"Are you going to keep this?"

Papyrus thrusts the box towards his brother, frowning when the mere movement blows up a cloud of dust. The normal, not-panic-worthy kind. Those days are over.

Sans looks at the assorted trinkets with vague disinterest. "I guess."

"That was actually a yes or no question." Papyrus mutters, putting the box of whatever-they-are into the 'maybe' pile.

A pile which, dare he say, is considerably taller than either the 'keep' or 'discard' piles are at this point.

It pains him to see, how could the great Papyrus ever allow his abode to become such a enormous mess? He guesses the entire immigration of their species to the above ground world, as well as a stop to what was essentially a time-loop that has left him in a bit of an existential crisis, could serve as an excuse.

Then again, maybe it couldn't.

"I'm assuming you want this?" Sans calls out, holding what for the longest time has served as a paperweight to his brother. It is, in essence, a particularly decorative rock.

"Assume makes an ass out of you and me." Papyrus answers, taking it for the trash. He hasn't managed to visit the store quite as often as he would like in the short year they've been living on the surface, only twice a day that is, but he's sure he can find something better to contain his papers than an upgraded pebble.

It's yet another relic from their previous life anyway.

The entire room, in fact, is filled with junk the two of them upheaved from their old home in Snowdin, but never managed to find a permanent spot for in their new house. For the longest time the stellar, shiny, dazzling ways of the surface had distracted them both from missing any of this stuff.

So, for the one year anniversary of their 'freedom' (And no matter what Frisk says Papyrus will still refuse to use that word without the air quotes) they decided to celebrate by taking out the trash.

And with they he means himself. Sans wasn't too keen on the idea, but not very keen on refusing much either so that worked out in the end.

"How did we even manage to collect so much useless crap to begin with." Sans says wearily, ignoring the way Papyrus frowns at the word he chooses to describe their items. "There's only two of us, there's enough clutter in here for an army."

"We're hoarders." Papyrus decides, throwing away an incredibly bend coat hanger.

His brother is occupying himself with folding stray papers into air planes and aiming them into the trash bag. His proficiency tells Papyrus this isn't the first time he has done this. "We _were_ hoarders."

"You say that, but I've seen your room, Sans."

He gets over to the back of the basement, where there's something big covered in tarp just standing around in the corner. Pulling off the cloth reveals the (not-so) mystery machine his brother always kept in the (not-so) hidden room behind their house in Snowdin.

Papyrus has seen it before. Sans even invited him to help him figure it out, timelines ago, but it has been a while since that. It looks older now, rusty around the edges and clearly still with pieces missing.

His bother hasn't fixed it.

He runs one hand along it, the grooves are foreign to him, yet radiate with a weird kind of familiarity that remind Papyrus of why they locked it in storage anyway.

"What about this thing?"

"What about it?"

They look at it in unison, silent resignation between them because this is too big to easily throw out and too broken to do anything with. Unless they can still manage to find some kind of way to fix it.

And Papyrus just knows Sans doesn't care. He would be more than content to just leave it where it is forever. Sans doesn't care much about anything these days.

"We can leave it _for now_." He says cautiously, taking care to emphasize the last few words lest Sans ignore them, because he can't really see another option.

Maybe if he meets Alphys sometime he can ask her to take a look at it. He's fairly sure Sans hasn't done that before.

And if there's anybody out there who can repair this thing it's the (ex-)royal scientist after all.

* * *

He forgets about it, of course.

They clean the rest of the basement and then they have lunch with Toriel and Frisk and when he next meets up with Undyne, days later, the broken machine has completely slipped his mind.

The sun is bright, summer is right around the corner and there's something interesting seemingly hanging in the air. A subdued kind of excitement about the coming months that the humans tend to feel instinctively.

Papyrus doesn't really get it. Either because he's not used to changing seasons being a thing, or because he's become so accustomed to the Snowdin climate. Though he agrees sunshine is preferable over rainy weather.

Undyne doesn't cook with him anymore. She kind of gave up on the whole 'training' charade as soon as the royal guard disbanded, and Papyrus is grateful for it.

Not just because they were never any good at it in the first place, as Undyne's kitchen can attest, but also because he honestly feels their relationship has improved a ton without the constant lying and false validation.

These days they just go out together to get ice cream or talk.

"Are you feeling alright, Pap?" She asks him that time, hair not held up in a ponytail for a change. It falls around her face in loose curls and he rather suspects she does it because Alphys likes it.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He says, perhaps a tad too quickly, for she squints at him suspiciously from between cracked eyelids.

"I'm fine." He repeats, hands clenching around the fabric of his shirt. He misses his scarf, but he also knows wearing it in this weather would make him look quite mad. And appearance means a lot to humans. "I just haven't been sleeping so well."

It's only half a lie. He hasn't been sleeping at all.

"How come?" She wants to know, eyes drifting off to their surroundings instead and at least Papyrus feels a bit less nervous without her gaze focused on him so intently.

"I don't know."

A complete lie this time.

That's one habit he has yet to break. Though maybe it's better he keep up the practice just in case Frisk still-

He forces a smile, knowing he shouldn't still be thinking like that.

"Maybe it's because you've become such a lazybones. What do you even do all day, besides sit around the house and fold your laundry three times over." Undyne laughs, slapping him on the back amiably with the kind of force that could break a bone.

Papyrus is quick to defend himself. "Only twice. Besides, I don't know what I want to do yet."

"You've been saying that for over a year now, Pap." Her hand stays on his shoulder, reassuring him and Papyrus knows she likes to see herself as his teacher still, in some ways. "I know you're nervous but you'll have to bite the bullet some time."

"I have no idea what that means." He groans. "Though it sounds very not-healthy."

"It's a human expression, which you would have known if you'd actually come out of the house once in a while."

He sighs, not able to articulate his fears yet again. There's little point in doing something, doing anything, if you know it's probably only temporary. What's the use in building up a life for yourself if you're acutely aware of it having the distinct possibility of being ripped away in a heartbeat.

Besides, the gold will last them years more on the surface, none of them really prepared for how valuable their meager currency would be to the humans. Which is the reason Sans isn't in much of a hurry to find a job either.

He's not even going to uni, despite looking into it when they first came up here.

Papyrus knows there's a very real possibility his brother's reasoning is much the same as his own, though they haven't talked about it out loud.

Talking is still hard for them.

"I'll think about it." He says instead, because it makes her smile regardless and pat him on the back once more, like a kid that has pleased her.

"That's the spirit." Undyne gets up with a leap, hands on her hips and he wishes he could be as oblivious as she sometimes makes him out to be. How much simpler it would be then. "Don't think too hard though, you might hurt your head."

He doesn't tell her it already does.

* * *

He still remembers when Sans found out.

He rather wished he didn't, but The Great Papyrus has a great memory and that day will forever stick with him. Or the look on his brother's face, the kind of unrestrained horror he thought Sans would reserve for his dying days.

Those had come and gone and maybe it had been callous of him, to presume he could keep up the oblivious act forever.

"You know? How long have you known?"

And Papyrus crossed his arms then, thinking maybe that could shield him. Shield both of them.

"I've never not known, Sans."

They didn't talk about it then and they didn't really talk about it after, not in many words at least. It just kind of sunk into their relationship, a new reality they'd have to deal with now.

At least they were less lonely. At least their tainted jokes and self-deprecating sarcasm had a soundboard now, an echo.

But it never became any easier.

* * *

When he comes home Sans is on the couch. Where else would he be.

His only saving grace is that at least the humans have more diverse tv networking than Mettaton used to have. It's nice, being able to watch a quiz show and _not_ knowing all the answers already because this is the 127th rerun.

Now they just don't know the answers because it's questions based on common-knowledge for humans, not monsters, that the participants are being quizzed on.

Papyrus plops down next to him, sighing dramatically just because he can and also maybe to annoy Sans a little. His brother turns down the volume and looks at him.

"What's up, bro?"

He could say 'nothing'. That would probably annoy Sans even more. There's a tiny part of him that takes joy in that, or maybe comfort. But he leans back into the cushions instead, staring at the ceiling.

"Do you think we're being lazy?"

"I am." Sans answers without skipping a beat. He has many flaws, but a lack of self-knowledge isn't among them. "What's this about?"

"This is about us, being here on the surface and not doing anything." Papyrus mutters. "Because of you know what."

They never call it by name, ever. That's bad luck.

The screen flickers. There's a commercial on with a very naked human smearing something all over their body in the shower. Papyrus never really got that either. Humans are weird.

"You mean this is about us being hesitant to trust the kid." Sans says. "And not being able to believe in the slightest good thing that comes along because we're cynical assholes."

Just as he had thought.

"Are we, though?"

"I mean, we could be wrong, you know." Sans stretches out along the couch, laying his slippered feet in his brother's lap. Papyrus doesn't push them off this time.

"We could be." he admits softly. Would it even change anything?

The television hums, a soft static noise barely perceptible over the music that kind of gets on his nerves for some reason.

"Do you hear that?" Papyrus asks.

"Hear what?" Sans answers, turning the tv off because he isn't watching anymore anyway, but the hum doesn't fade as the screen does.

It gets louder.

"Nothing."

* * *

It's dark. Too dark to see anything and when he looks down he can't even see himself.

That's mildly concerning.

The sound is faint at first, he can hear it as if he's listening to it through a wall. As if he has his ear pressed against a door and they're playing some kind of music he can't fully grasp. Having a conversation he won't be able to understand, but wants to.

Where has he heard this before?

He presses harder.

Except he's not pressing against anything except the sides of his own skull and it hurts. Not painfully so, nothing like dying, but a dull ache that's more bothersome than anything else.

That creeps up his spine and settles into a pounding in his head.

He groans but no sound comes out. Or not any he can hear over the noise at least. It's louder now, echoes against the walls in eerie ways and he's not sure if it's actual words anymore or just a constant crackle.

More static.

He reaches out but there's nothing in front of him, behind him. He's not confident there's a floor below him. Only more noise.

It's so loud he can't hear himself think, insistently getting louder and louder and grating, jumbled-

Somebody grabs his wrist.

Of course Papyrus wakes up then. Dreams have a tendency to stop abruptly just as something important is about to happen.

The noise is gone, even the hum from before blissfully absent, but his head aches as if somebody drove a truck over it.

Not that Papyrus knows what that would feel like, but he imagines that _if_ a truck would ever drive over his head it would feel somewhat similar to this.

It's very dark, too dark, so he turns on the nightlight and ignores the way the shadows crawl along the walls. He reminds himself a mere absence of light is nothing to be afraid of.

He's had this dream several times now, not always exactly the same sequence but familiar enough to feel significant. And every time it leaves him oddly anxious, unable to sleep properly or at all.

He rolls over, draws the blankets up over his head and wishes he hadn't convinced himself to throw out his storybooks. Maybe if he sleeps some more the pounding will go away. It's getting so bad he doesn't want to get out of bed in the mornings anymore.

But he stays awake the rest of the night instead, listening to the silence.

* * *

 **Tumblr: sharada-n**


	2. Chapter 2

His alarm clock blares and Papyrus has to resist every urge he has to pick it up and chuck it at the opposite wall.

He has been lying awake staring at the ceiling for hours now, all night in fact, and there's a murmur at the edge of his mind that's driving him insane. It keeps interrupting his thoughts too, how rude.

At long last, perhaps he has managed to reach that coveted state which the humans call 'sleep deprivation'.

He gets up though, because if he doesn't get up then Sans won't either and if Sans won't then Papyrus loses his moral high ground achieved by nagging his brother to live a productive life and getting him to engage in moderate activity.

It's a crucial factor of their relationship, he dare say.

His battle body is still in the closet, nearly falling apart at the seams. It was poorly constructed on a whim, no doubt, but at least the resetting of the timelines meant it was brand new each time around.

Now it's just old.

The scarf is still fine though, and he pulls it out to wrap around his neck despite his earlier inhibitions. He feels like crap, tired and irritable and like somebody has been yelling at him for hours, the echoes still resonating inside his skull.

He deserves his scarf today.

He knocks on his brother's door, getting the usual reply that Sans will be up 'in a minute'. This typically means Papyrus has about half an hour to prepare breakfast, at which point Sans will finally show up.

But when he pulls open the cabinet and stares at the packages of oatmeal neatly stored for future means, there's a knot in his non-literal stomach.

Eating just doesn't seem all that appetizing right now.

Besides, with how exhausted he is, he's likely to fall asleep into his bowl of soggy milk and drown.

Papyrus isn't sure if that would be possible, but he knows it _would_ be a lousy way to go and he doesn't want to risk it. The great Papyrus can't perish like that.

"I'm already heading out!" He yells, pulling on his boots and since it's loud enough to give himself even more of a headache, no doubt it reached Sans.

There's a muffled thud in response, most likely his brother falling off the dingy mattress he calls a bed, that signals he did hear it.

The sun is already high in the sky, a staple of summer and Papyrus finds himself squinting at the abundance of light. You'd think that after a year, he would get used to this, but today it just feels too bright for comfort.

He'll just head to the store and back real quick, and maybe then he can finally catch up on some sleep.

* * *

Ten minutes in and Papyrus is starting to seriously question his life's decisions.

Somehow the lights inside the store are worse than the blazing hot ball of hydrogen and helium outside and it's loud too. Music blaring from the speakers and people talking and the faint static crackling of _something_.

It pounds against the side of his skull yet again, harder now, like an unwanted visitor eager on getting in and if this continues much longer Papyrus might just start to miss those times he didn't have a head at all.

Instead he forces himself painstakingly to concentrate on the shelves of pasta he's trying to decipher the meaning of. It's his turn to make dinner for their weekly 'get-to-getter' and if he doesn't make spaghetti he knows Frisk would be seriously disappointed.

They seem to appreciate the irony.

Not to mention he actually has become quite a bit more adept at making it, when there isn't an annoying dog pestering him through the process, making him burn the vegetables or use sugar instead of salt.

"Howdy, Papyrus."

It takes more effort than he cares to admit not to groan. Papyrus doesn't dislike Asgore. In fact, he's quite fond of their former king and the two of them talk pretty often through that amazing inventions humans call the internet. (It works a ton better than the monster variant thereof)

But the strain he's already under trying not to abandon his cart and run back home as fast as a pile of snow melts in Hotland simply won't hold up to social interactions.

Nevertheless, he forces a beaming smile. Thank whomever for all those years of practice.

"Your Majesty, fancy meeting you here."

Not that fancy at all, considering most of them live within a 3 mile radius of each other. After getting to the surface everything was so scary and new, it seemed like a logical decision to stick close together.

Papyrus can't say he has regretted it up until this point.

"I see you're preparing for some kind of celebratory feast." Asgore chuckles warmly, eyeing the abundance of wears in the skeleton's cart and Papyrus looks down almost guiltily, as if he's doing something wrong.

Asgore isn't usually invited to their dinner parties.

"Ah well, it's just mundane stuff, I believe you would be quite bored by it." He tries, pushing the cart forward just an inch and if his head could stop _fucking_ pounding for one nano-second that would be great.

The king nods, his expression caught between a smile and a frown and Papyrus knows he knows. Frisk probably told him.

Despite their... disagreeable reputation, they're quite a bad liar.

"Why don't you com-" Papyrus starts, because there's something tight curled inside his chest, uncomfortable and he feels like his vision is swaying a bit from the pain. Getting just slightly blurry around the edges too.

But Asgore interrupts him with a polite gesture. "No it's... probably for the best. I have matters to attend to anyhow."

He isn't a great liar either.

They say their goodbyes quickly but the exchange leaves Papyrus even more anxious than before, rushing through the racks and ignoring all the curious stares it earns him. He exhales happily when he's finally outside again, purchases completed successfully.

He's already deadly exhausted and the day has barely even started.

His cellphone starts ringing but he ignores it, only wanting to get home. Maybe, for the first time in a long long while, he'll just take a nap instead.

It wouldn't be the end of the world.

* * *

The darkness isn't so dark this time.

It's more like something out of Waterfall, the kind of inky black that is undercut with blue-ish hues and strange lights. Papyrus blinks but, no, it's definitely the room that's doing this, not his eyesight.

He turns around.

It hits him like a brick to the face. He does know what that feels like, unlike the truck, due to an unfortunate childhood incident practicing his blue magic and it hurts just as much as he remembers, maybe more so.

It's something bright and harsh and he kneels awkwardly, not knowing how a simple light could make it feel like his skull is splitting apart.

Somehow he makes a pained sound but it gets swallowed up in the noise again.

For what feels like ages Papyrus sits there, surrounded by emptiness and clamour, arms clenched around his knees while wave after wave of a splitting headache demands his attention. The tightness in his rib cage has returned with a vengeance.

By the time it subsides and he can squint into the brightness, the noises have doubled in volume, like a television set left on static but turned up the the highest volume possible, undercut by garbled words clinging to the edges of his consciousness and if only he could put his finger on why they sound like he should know their meaning.

Like maybe somebody told this tale to him before.

He reaches into the light and something reaches back.

Then he wakes up, the sheer shock of it toppling him off the couch and onto their unforgiving living room floor in a fair approximation of his brother's display that very morning.

Not that Sans is anywhere around anymore. He fled the house as soon as Papyrus rushed in like a madman, throwing their groceries into the cabinets with the speed of light, only giving a grumbled response to any questions and maybe they understand each other better than Papyrus usually gives themselves credit for after all.

Because Sans didn't need any more verbal confirmation that he should make a speedy exit.

He doesn't know how long it had been since then so he pokes his hands into the folds of their couch cushions to search for his phone, knowing himself well enough to realize it ended up down there somewhere.

The brightness of the screen reminds him too much of the nightmare, so he gets up to open the curtains and sees he has missed several messages and calls already.

Truly the world can't survive without The Great Papyrus.

It's mostly Sans though, checking if he's awake yet. Checking if it's safe to come home.

One message asking if he's ok.

Papyrus answers with a short reply to tell him he's going to make dinner now. It's already well past noon and he hasn't forgotten their guests coming over later.

Undyne has called twice, but he figures he can talk to her later, when he doesn't feel like her average tone of voice will make him want to bash his head into a wall, since she's coming over anyway.

And then there's a message from Frisk.

'Dad told me what happened.' It simply says, followed by one of those strange yellow faces they're so fond of using. Papyrus only ever uses the skull ones himself.

He remembers his encounter with Asgore in a flash, though the details are blurry. Back then his head had been ascramble and right now he can barely recall what exactly they spoke about.

'Did you invite him?' Papyrus asks, maybe a bit too curt for his usual texting habits, but his spine is itching, restless, so he gets up and heads over to the kitchen.

The pain is gone, he wouldn't know what he'd have done if it wasn't. But it left only hollowness behind.

He feels like he's forgetting something important.

As he's getting the vegetables out of the fridge his phone buzzes on the counter. 'No, I don't think mom would like that...'

Papyrus hums, even though he's alone in the room. It never really became clear to him what exactly transpired between the king and queen. It's not his position to pry anyway, and it's not like he found any pictures of them together with their children in the royal private quarters.

Nope sir, that didn't happen.

His phone comes to life once again and he squints at it.

'Maybe we can bring it up together?'

Frisk is the type of person that takes action first and asks questions after, so it strikes Papyrus as peculiar that they would ask for his support on this. Advice, yes, but the human had proved time and time again they required little back-up to achieve whatever they set their mind to.

The almost childish hesitance makes Papyrus smile at himself.

'We can talk about it when you get here, of course!'

They send him back a smiley and a thumbs up. He closes his phone with a sigh, ignoring the weird feeling of foreboding still blossoming behind his sternum.

He turns on the radio quickly, grateful for the way the white noise fills the silence. Or covers up the weird, detached lack thereof inside his mind.

* * *

Sans sneaks in some hours later, tiptoeing around Papyrus as if he's a time bomb ready to blow and when he notices there's not going to be an imminent blast he visibly relaxes, lounging against the side of their table and ignoring his brother's request at help setting that same table.

"I'm glad you're feeling better." He says, mutters under his breath and Papyrus barely catches it over the still wailing radio.

Maybe Sans didn't intent for him to hear in the first place.

"I'm fine." He says.

He's starting to detect a pattern here.

"Of course. I was just thinking-" Sans laughs at that, as if him putting any serious thought into anything is humorous at best. "You seemed a bit on edge yesterday and then this morning, the scarf and-. The kid hasn't been-"

The realization of what is being implicated makes it feel like a stone has sunk down into his proverbial stomach and Papyrus turns around quickly, accidentally spraying tomato sauce against the counter top.

"Oh no, Sans, no that's- That's not it at all. Really!"

His brother studies him for a moment, then nods tightly. Papyrus knows they are both constantly on the look-out for any sign that things might return to the way they were before. It's tiring, but at least knowing they're both aware has made the tension slightly more bearable.

Maybe Sans had been out all morning and afternoon thinking about what they'd do if _that_ happened. Papyrus feels slightly guilty at not making himself clearer then.

"I think it has more to do with that... not happening." He says carefully, turning back around to finish the food and the doorbell might ring any second now.

They don't have time for serious existential dread right now.

"Me too." Sans says. He sets the table without Papyrus having to ask again.

* * *

They keep up a pleasant string of idle conversation all through dinner, and it isn't until Toriel is cutting into the excellent-smelling butterscotch pie she has predictably brought over for dessert, that Frisk nudges against him under the table.

Papyrus looks down at them. They raise their eyebrows at him. He shrugs.

They nudge again, except it's more of a kick and he coughs into his hand politely. After such an obvious display of theatrics, everybody is already staring at the both of them.

Papyrus wishes his head would be quiet so he could gather his thought.

"I met His Majesty in the store today." he says awkwardly.

That was not the opening he was going for, but it would have to do. He desperately makes eye contact with Frisk again and they seem to sense his distress, clapping their hands together to catch every bodies attention.

"I've not seen dad in a while. How was he?" They sign eagerly, the words coming along under their breath a testament at how comfortable they have become with their new family, though their hands still move by muscle memory alone. Nudging him again, more subtly this time, Papyrus gets the hint.

"He seemed rather... melancholic." He says slowly.

Undyne frowns from across the table. "Yeah, he hasn't quite been himself lately." She adds. Papyrus knows she keeps in touch with Asgore regularly and is glad she is, however incidental, helping their argument along.

"M-maybe he's lonely. We barely see him leave the house." Alphys mumbles, fidgeting with the tablecloth. "Only to take care of the garden."

"Perhaps, we could invite him next time." Papyrus says at last, Frisk nodding along and Toriel has stopped cutting the pie, eyes downcast.

"I don't think that would be such a good idea, my child." She says calmly, looking at Frisk with the kind of emotion in her eyes that betrays she had long expected this question to come along, but still dreaded it.

"Why not?" Frisk asks, a pout betraying the youthful innocence they sometimes harbor but rarely show, hardened by things none of them quite know about.

Papyrus asked once, but only got a shaking of the head in response.

Toriel puts a piece of pie in front of them. "I just think it wouldn't be."

Frisk frowns, small hands pinching together for a moment. " _Why_ not, mom?"

The noise is back. It buzzes now, like an insistent fly that won't leave him alone and drowns out whatever The Queen answers. Papyrus clasps his hands to his skull but it only gets louder.

His head hurts. Worse.

He drops his hands back into his lap a moment later, suddenly aware of how obvious he is being but a quick glance confirms the others are too preoccupied by Frisk and Toriel to notice. Their voices are rising, even Frisk's thought they sound hoarse, unaccustomed to talking with any true volume.

Papyrus wishes they would be quieter.

Sans has laid one hand on her elbow in something that is meant to be placating but clearly annoys her, though she looks more pained than anything. "It's just not an option and I wish you would stop insisting on it!"

Something sticks out to Papyrus then. Something like the sound of a rock hitting the wall. A thud that echoes then hits again. And again, and again.

He looks around wildly but the windows are intact, the shattering of glass weirdly absent. He's not sure where it came from anyway.

Or maybe it's the slamming of a door. Repeating itself endlessly and faster and louder and quieter and slower until it's not slamming any more but just being, existing, overwhelming everything.

It whispers to him.

"Shut up!"

His hands are shaking. They're pressed flat against the table, the one he just slammed down on with enough force to knock over one of their glasses, but his fingers won't stay still. The water makes a dark stain against the tablecloth.

Everybody is looking at him in shock.

He wants to say something but the silence is deafening in its suddenness. The lack of noise too loud for comfort.

It's hard to think.

"Pap-" Sans begins, the way he says the name more than Papyrus can handle at this moment. It reminds him too much of back then and not enough of the change.

He would to anything to never be reminded again.

"I'm really sorry." He mumbles, already up and the chair topples over in his hurry, banging against the floor and it's as if this sound alone is enough to set him off. He's throwing the door to his bedroom shut before he can blink a second time.

Nobody is following him up.

His hands won't stay still anymore, not even when he lays his skull into them and tries not to panic. They press and contract and he sobs, trying to get them to stop.

Trying to silence them.

It whispers again and this time Papyrus understands the words.

* * *

 **Tumblr: sharada-n**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the comments guys, you rock!**

* * *

It feels like hours have passed, but when he finally builds up the resolve to open his eye sockets again it's only been mere minutes.

Papyrus sighs, his hands have stopped shaking at least, and the hurricane inside his head is nothing more but a faint whimper, a storm rattling against the windows of the safely secured house that is his mind.

He doesn't listen to it. Doesn't answer.

That would probably be a bad idea. He doesn't even need Sans to tell him so, this time.

It's a pretty tempting notion to just crawl into bed and pull the blanket up over his head, not deal with any of this right now. Going downstairs after what happened is a rather embarrassing prospect, and he's not sure the Great Papyrus' great pride could handle such a thing at the moment.

Then again, not going downstairs and leaving his friends to awkwardly wonder at the lack of his presence or the way in which he ever so dramatically vacated the premises might be even worse.

Not to mention, with all the napping he did this afternoon, he doesn't feel even remotely tired.

Getting up, Papyrus quickly brushes the imaginary dust from his clothes and looks at himself in the mirror hanging on this side of his bedroom door, pushing his hands against the side of his skull for a bare moment.

The pressure is nice, comforting.

He smiles, strains against the movement so hard it hurts for a second but he does it until the grimace looks natural enough to maybe convince somewhat, if not completely.

At least he is taking Undyne's advice. He is biting the bullet tonight, for sure.

* * *

The house is oddly quite when he goes downstairs and Papyrus briefly considers the possibility of the guests maybe going home after his little outburst. He frowns at the thought, even now annoyed at himself for being such a terrible host if that's the case.

Naturally he couldn't trust his brother to pick up the slack in that department.

However, he finds they're still there, right where he left them.

 _As if nothing happened at all_

The thought is gone almost as soon as it forced its way into his mind, tasting bittersweet in a way only nostalgia does, and Papyrus pointedly ignores that too.

Sans looks at him from across the table.

He opens his mouth slightly, closes it again, and Papyrus could have sworn he heard it-

But he didn't.

"Papyrus." Toriel says suddenly and he blinks, forced to stop staring at the wall behind his brother and focusing on the present instead. The queen has pushed back her chair and stands up to greet him, her features pinched together.

The guilt is written all over her face.

"I want to apologize for my inappropriate behavior earlier. I did not intent to spoil the mood." Her eyes are downcast and her hands are clenched together.

Papyrus doesn't really know Toriel that well. They have never spent much time together, spare for a brief stint of living in the Ruins in one particular long-forgotten timeline. But he knows she cares a lot for his brother and for Frisk and there isn't really much more he needs to be certain she's a good person at heart.

"It's fine." He says, putting that forced smile to good use and she studies his face for a moment, uncertain.

"I really do aggrieve upsetting you." She says carefully, gripping his elbow and Papyrus tries hard not to flinch at the touch, the whispers rolling loudly inside his skull.

He knows they're wrong.

"I was not aware this was such a... sensitive issue for you as well."

Frisk peeks out from behind the chair they're seated on, knees chaffed against the wood and they shake their head slightly, barely enough for him to catch it.

He could have guessed they would think that's what got him distressed in the first place.

They truly have no idea.

"It's quite alright." He reassures her, stepping backwards to break the physical contact without seeming impolite. "I rather think I might be coming down with something, I haven't been myself all day."

She seems relieved at this, eyes lighting up just a tiny bit and she steps back too, shoulders sagging as the tense atmosphere seems to dissipate around them.

"Nonetheless, I realize Asgore is an important person to a lot of you and it was wrong of me to try and exclude him from our proceedings out of personal spite. I'm sorry."

She looks at Frisk as she says those last words. They smile softly, their chin leaning against the backrest.

Despite the dull ache off his skull and the faint words in the static, it makes Papyrus happy to know at least they got their point across, even if it wasn't in the way they intended too.

A serendipity, as one might call it.

Undyne says something but he doesn't catch it among the voices. He crosses his arms and pinches his humerus discreetly to make them quiet down.

He's not giving them what they want.

Toriel has sat down again and the way the others are staring at him makes Papyrus realize they think the storm has blown over and they can all get back to being a happy family now. He sits down stiffly, pushing his hands into his lap and putting his weight onto them.

The strain is nice and makes it easier for him to concentrate. The noise fades away just a tiny bit and he sighs.

"Who wants pie?"

* * *

Nobody comments on his lack of conversation the remainder of the evening, though both Sans and Alphys throw him those concerned little glances the entire time. Papyrus tries to smile reassuringly at them, hoping it will dissuade them from thinking there might be more going on, but self-aware enough to know it probably won't.

He tries to figure out what would be an appropriate way of saying: "hey, I might be experiencing some slightly disconcerting auditory hallucinations at the moment, but I'm sure it will pass so not to worry. Everything is under control!" but comes up blank.

Eventually Frisk starts yawning between jokes and Toriel glances up at the clock, politely excusing the both of them. Papyrus sees them to the door, like the proper host that he is, silently wishing they won't bring up earlier events again.

The queen looks like she might want to, but doesn't in the end and he's grateful for that at least. Frisk waves at him as they leave, smiling apologetically and he knows they feel guilty for putting him under so much pressure.

Undyne and Alphys get up and say their goodbyes not long after and the house goes silent again when Papyrus closes the door and turns the key for the night.

He knows Sans is standing behind him without needing to look. Maybe if he doesn't turn around he can postpone the inevitable.

"So, are you going to tell me what that was all about or-"

Sans trails of, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air between them.

 _Or are you going to lie again_ it murmurs between the static.

Papyrus hates them already. Not that he's listening.

"I told you, I might be coming down with something so I wasn't feeling too well. It's fine."

He turns around then, because he can't just have this conversation with their front door. He has to at least have the guts to stare Sans in the face if he won't do him the honor of telling the truth.

"God, Pap, stop treating me like an idiot." His brother huffs in annoyance, and it echoes in yells inside his head, volume rising with the anger Papyrus feels at those words.

It slips out then.

"That's rich, coming from you!"

Sans seems shocked, if only for a moment. At his change in tone or the rising pitch to his voice or maybe at the pure bitterness in there, the blame. Just for a second laid bare before them.

"Not this again." He groans, rubbing his hands down his face and Papyrus walks past him into the kitchen, unable to hear his excuses right now. Not that it stops Sans from following him and continuing their conversation either way.

"We talked about this Papyrus. We talked about this for hours on hours and what do you even want me to do about it now? What do you want me to do to fix this?"

He doesn't say anything, gathering the plates and cutlery and he hates how they've apparently resorted to doing this again. How even after a year this is where they end up. How they said they were done and it was over yet here they go once more.

Maybe they're just cursed. Always doomed to end up in cycles. If not literal ones, then the proverbial kind.

"Nothing. I don't want you to do anything."

"Then stop acting like you do." Sans says desperately and for a second Papyrus feels guilty. Because, yes Sans hurt him, more than words can encapsulate. And yes, there are things neither of them will ever be able to take back.

But is he really so vain and selfish that he can't let that go?

 _Or maybe because you know you deserved this_

"Tell me what you want me to do to fix this." Sans repeats, low in his throat, like he's going to burst out in tears. "To fix us."

Papyrus ignores him, putting stuff in the sink with such force the counter rattles. He can't think right now, can't speak. If he had lungs he would be choking cause he can't breathe.

He doesn't know what to do to fix this either.

"I know I fucked up ok? I know I've been terrible. And you've been terrible. And we've been terrible for each other. But that doesn't mean we have to be. Just tell me what you want."

Papyrus can't look at him. He doesn't want to know if his brother is sobbing or just sounds like it and he's pushing the other stuff into the dishwasher as fast as he can manage.

"Please Papyrus, just fucking tell me-"

Sans grabs his wrist and the glass he was holding escapes his grip, smashes against the floor. The sound is unbearable, glass shattering as if the entire house is creaking on its foundation and Papyrus doesn't hear himself answer as much as he can feel it.

The static repeating it inside his mind, over and over.

"I want you to leave me the fuck alone, ok?!"

The glass pieces glisten softly in the kitchen light, an entire constellation of stars spread across the tiles, like the ones back underground, back home.

Sans does as he is told, for once.

* * *

And then the silence returns.

Truly this time, because even his mind feels wrapped in tranquility, quiet at last.

Or maybe not completely, Papyrus isn't sure if he'd be able to tell at this point. But the voices have stopped and that's what matters.

He's sitting on the floor, too tired to get up or clean the broken pieces or do anything but just sit there. One of the shards pushes against the inside of his leg, sharp and jagged and he lets it, he doesn't care.

He really fucked up this time.

His phone buzzes and it's Alphys. She wants to know if they're still up for their morning run tomorrow.

Papyrus stares at it, at the screen, wondering what to say.

There was something he needed to ask her. Something about the basement, but he can't remember.

 _It's probably not that important anyway_

Honestly, he doesn't really feel like going, but not going would likely make everything worse. He really can't afford to screw up more than he already has.

And maybe he can recall whatever it is he needed to ask her come morning.

* * *

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep but he must have because it's that dream again.

He's sitting back against something this time though, maybe a wall, and he doesn't get up either. His head hurts so badly.

The darkness is cold, eerily similar to the way Snowdin used to be. The white noise is familiar enough by now to border on comforting.

"What do you want from me?"

His voice sounds dull, foreign to this place. Like its sheer existence swallows up any attempt he can muster at making proper noise, replacing it with static once more.

It doesn't answer, and Papyrus isn't sure if he should be disappointed or relieved.

He curls up tighter, pressing his knees into his chest and clasping his arms around them firmly enough to hear them creak. Maybe if he just sits like this and waits, it will all just fade away.

It settles over him like a blanket, something heavy on his shoulders, his skull. Some part of him is scared, but more of him isn't surprised.

"What do you want?" He groans into his elbows.

 _ **W** lds̶k͝lqs͘ **E͜** d̴ḱs_

He blinks. Tries to make himself as small as possible if it would just leave him alone.

 _ **W͡** dl **E͡** d͞j ͏ **W** sj **A͟** dj͞k͡ **N** kds̕j̷ds **T** ks **Y** j́k̕s **O** k͏s̕ **U͘** d_

"You can't." He says, knowing it won't listen.

It's so loud he has to close his eyes not to die.

 _ **S** fkdfj **O̡** j͜sj̷d **O** ksd̴ **N**_

Papyrus shakes his head, gets up and his legs are trembling beneath him, barely able to move. He falls forwards, hits his skull against the edge of the kitchen table with a sharp crack that leaves him disoriented but thoroughly awake.

The coldness still wraps around his bones.

Lying admits shattered glass in the darkness of that room, Papyrus can't help but cry.

* * *

 **Tumblr: Sharada-n**


	4. Chapter 4

And then Papyrus gets up and pulls himself together.

He doesn't want to. He wants nothing more than to break down and scream and cry and tell somebody that he's not going to deal with this alone. That he needs help to pick up the pieces this time.

But old habits just die hard, he guesses.

It's like slipping back into a familiar pair of shoes, comfortable and worn and maybe you know you shouldn't wear them anymore, because there's stitching letting loose on the soles, sharp rocks poking into the delicate underside of your feet. But you do anyway.

He brushes the broken shard of glass together, hates the way they look like fallen stars against their tile floor and how that reminds him of Sans.

Sans who always wanted to see the stars and now that he has that opportunity doesn't dare look at them for fear of losing sight again.

He leaves a note on the fridge then, passive-aggressive maybe, but it avoids them having to get into an awkward post-fight conversation anytime soon.

"Out with Alphys. Will be back by noon. Don't go out."

Don't go out 'please', an inner voice chides (his own, mercifully) but for some reason his hand refuses to cooperate and add this courtesy. His arm feels too stiff for his body.

Papyrus rotates it slowly, deliberately, trying to get it to feel like a part of his physical manifestation again.

It doesn't really work, considering his entire body feels like somebody else's. Almost as if he's only viewing it through a mirror, a casual observer getting a peek into some other poor skeleton's life.

He shakes his heads, flaps his hands in front of himself until he feels real again.

 _Wouldn't you like that?_

* * *

The park isn't usually too crowded on a weekday morning, instead radiating an odd sense of tranquility.

Papyrus likes it because Alphys likes it.

While her sense of confidence and self-worth has certainly approved with time, and he does like to think he has had some part in that, crowds still make her nervous.

They run along their usual route, not really talking except for a few comments regarding the weather here and there. Papyrus keeps drifting off somehow, not noticing his increased pace until he hears Alphys huffing to keep up with him.

More and more it's like autopilot is taking over while he gets lost in thought, static.

 _So hopelessly lost_

He dreamt something last night. He knows he did and it's in the corner of his consciousness, a black spot mocking his vision.

Wasn't he supposed to ask Alphys something important?

 _Better claw through the mess in your mind too sometimes_

He blinks and they're sitting on a bench, Alphys breathing heavily besides him but still able to throw a concerned glance his way. So he smiles, though it might be more of a grimace.

"Are you okay, Papyrus?"

the question echoes inside him with the rust of a hundred similar ones before it. And the answer too is clogged up from over usage.

"No." He says. "Not really."

Her face scrunches up, but she stays silent. Maybe she thinks she's imposing, shouldn't ask, shouldn't bother him.

 _There's so many things she doesn't believe she deservers, aren't there?_

"Can I ask you something?" He says.

"S-sure." Hands clenched together a little too tightly, her eyes linger on the flowers surrounding them, gold and bright under the peaking spring sun.

Papyrus wonder what his best friend is up to these days.

 _Do you really think he ever cared?_

"Do you and Undyne ever fight?"

It isn't the thing. The important thing he forgot about, which still eludes him, but it's something maybe even more critical right now.

Something he needs to hear so badly it hurts.

Alphys stumbles, her face grows as red as the lava pits back in Hotland he so detests. Maybe asking something like that was rude of him.

 _She probably hates you now_

With every passing second the former royal scientist doesn't answer he wants to die a little more. This wasn't what he wanted to say and it slipped out and now he fucked up again.

He's such an idiot sometimes.

"It's fine, Papyrus." Her hand is on his wrist, claws clicking against his bones and he realizes he was scratching his arms, trying to feel something, to ground himself firmly into reality.

 _She definitely hates you_

"Is this about Sans?" She asks and he nods, tightly, tries to look at a couple of children conquering the slide on the other side of the path but his vision is blurry.

"We fight." It comes out so quietly, small. He has hurt her, surely. "Of course we do."

She has pulled he hands back into her lap, but she's looking at him and he looks back and tries to concentrate on the yellowish-green shade of her eyes instead.

"It isn't always easy, especially not up here. Undyne, she's... a lot. A whole lot. You know she is. And I don't think I'm nearly enough in comparison."

He hopes she won't start crying. Couldn't bear it if she did. But she looks calm, steadfast.

"She doesn't like it very much when I say stuff like that though..."

He doesn't know what to say. Is it even appropriate for him to say anything for that matter?

"Sans and me started fighting a lot more after we-" Maybe changing the subject will help but also it's infinitely worse. "I'm so tired of it. I just want things to go back to normal."

 _You think they ever were?_

"But if you're trying, isn't that enough?" Alphys says, looking away and he's not sure if she's talking about his situation or her own, perhaps both.

"I guess."

 _Enough is not the same it was before_

* * *

He takes the long way home, going through the busier part of town in the hopes that the distraction will keep him from losing track of his thoughts again.

Papyrus isn't too bothered by humans anymore, and they don't seem to stare as much as they used to anyway. It's mostly children now, pointing with big eyes and weird little smiles and he waves back at them, feeling almost as famous as he used to dream of being.

Maybe he should get a new glass on his way home?

Or is he just considering that to postpone getting there and talking to Sans. Mostly he just wants to apologize. He was a lot snarkier than usual and his brother didn't deserve to catch the brunt of his bad mood just because it's convenient and the two of them don't always get along.

Things haven't been as bad as Papyrus makes them out to be. They're a lot better than they used to before, at least.

 _But is enough still enough_

Perhaps it was just time to accept that the two of them have outgrown each other. It's a bleak thought, Papyrus can't remember a time without Sans at his side, but maybe that's exactly the problem. You can cling to a life line all you like, if you're putting too much pressure on it, it will break eventually.

 _And you'll sink sink sink_

He's on the curb, waiting for the light to turn green so he can cross and maybe it would be ok. If he just apologizes, explain to Sans what's going on and then they can find a solution together.

And ask Alphys the thing. What thing?

The broken basement machine.

He steps forward, down, onto the street as the though hits him, hurls into him with the speed of a truck.

Except it's not the thought that hits him, is it?

The world turns upside down with a sickening lurch, Papyrus has just enough time to realize that's not normal before the pain blinds him.

It skitters up his limbs with sharp little claws, until it hurts to move his legs, though that would be impossible anyway because he's not on the ground anymore.

He's somewhere in the air, somewhere weightless and scary, with everything moving erratically and then he's on the asphalt, the sound of twigs snapping all around him through the static.

Excepts it's his bones that have snapped. He can't see them, face turned upward, the sky is cloudless and blue but he knows it's his bones that have broken. Somebody screams.

The truck that has hit him is swerving down the street, brakes screeching loudly but it's already too late for any of that. The damage is done.

There's a breeze and the air is full of dust, some human that came closer to help covers their mouth and coughs, chokes on his dissipating body.

Their eyes tell Papyrus everything he needs to know.

He opens his jaw, tries to force something out, but it won't budge.

Sans. What will Sans do without him?

It's the last thing that crosses his mind, and if that isn't bitter-sweet irony he doesn't know what is.

 _Nothing he would do nothing he would do nothing_

He closes his eyes then, slowly, and when he opens them again he's standing on the curb, waiting for the light to turn green.

Or it already has, though he hadn't noticed. A man in a long coat grumbles and bumps into him to pass, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

There's a truck, patiently waiting for Papyrus to cross the street but he can't move. His legs are whole, unbroken, undusted, but he can't move and then the light blinks to red once more and the cars start driving again.

He wants to puke just thinking about how real that felt.

 _What a pretty picture it would make though_

He stands there, petrified, for what must be minutes, hours, days- No. Just a couple of seconds, then. So he turns around and takes another way home.

* * *

Sans isn't there.

Papyrus knows as soon as he enters, even before he has wiped his feet at the door and his legs are still shaking, barely able to properly carry his weight.

But they're still there. Nothing happened.

 _Nothing_

His note is crumbled in the trash, a clear sign that his brother isn't planning to just let this go.

Papyrus sighs at the thought of what that means. All energy has left him. All desire to sit down and talk about what's happening and how to fix them.

He just wants it to stop.

 _I'm sure we can make it stop_

The mail is lying on the table, so at least there's that. Sans has sorted the letters neatly, most of them for himself as he's the one that takes care of the bills and stuff.

Another remainder of their Snowdin life they never quite got rid of.

But there's also the newspaper and Papyrus sits down heavily, ignoring the way every bone of his body aches as if he was hit by a truck.

He definitely, certainly wasn't. He would know if he was.

It just kind of hurts like he was.

He flips straight to the crossword puzzle, because what's the point of newspapers besides the puzzles. Well, there's the comics, but today just wasn't a very 'comic' day.

God, even Sans would cringe at that one.

But it's nice, letting himself drift away in an endless cycle of numbers and letter blocks, raking his vocabulary for the right answers and it's fine. He can just sit at his kitchen table and solve crosswords for the rest of his days.

Or at least for the next few hours. And then Sans will come home and sit across from him and they'll talk. They'll talk about everything and laugh at how silly they have been and it will be fine.

It will be enough.

 _Who's fooling who here?_

Except every single answer is wrong, complete nonsense. He cringes, the pen drop from his grip and rolls along the table, off the edge, clatters against the floor but he's staring at the crossword as if it has betrayed him.

If he can't solve a stupid puzzle, then what use is he even?

Slaughter, End, Throne

Under, Sickness

Fidelity, Reign, Expire, Excess

He rips it apart, clenches his teeth until his head hurts and the static quiets down, replaced by the dull throbbing of pain. Harder, still.

 _Like a plaster on a wound that leaks blood_

"Shut up." He hisses, his voice breaking the silence unceremoniously, echoing against the walls.

They don't answer him.

Sans does.

"Geez bro, I haven't even said anything." He mutters from the doorway, eyes caught on the floor, the pen. Not looking at Papyrus.

He isn't wearing his slippers or his coat, so maybe he was home all along.

"Sans." Papyrus can only say that one word. That one name. Everything is spinning, detached, and when the chair topples out from under him he hits the floor with a dull crack that resonates against his skull.

 _You will listen_

* * *

 ** _Thanks for the comments dears 3_**

 ** _tumblr: sharada-n_**


	5. Chapter 5

There used to be this thing they did back in Snowdin.

Papyrus can't really remember it clearly, because it was something they did before Frisk fell. Before Flowey and before waking up yesterday or today or tomorrow was all the same thing.

And it's funny, how he can recall it now, suddenly, unbidden. Creeping into his mind like a figure emerging from inky blackness to announce its presence. Clawing its fingernails into the edges of his brain and hooking them there.

They used to talk about the monster.

Papyrus isn't an idiot. Neither is Sans, obviously. And they know there's something missing about them. Some part of them, their past, that is irreversibly broken and different from that of others unlike them.

And the scary part, the truly frightening thing, is that they can't remember what.

They can theorize, sure, and that's what they used to do, for hours on end. Collect pieces of their memory as if they're making a scrap book, fitting them together at odd angles with jagged edges. Filling in the gaps with make-believe and conjecture.

About the monster who they used to know. Who used to appear and disappear and who was sometimes there and sometimes wasn't.

Who fed them and raised them and hurt them and maybe even made them.

Who they didn't remember and nobody remembered. Who probably possibly didn't exist in the first place, though their history wouldn't make sense without it.

They fought about it a lot, many times. Papyrus thinks back on those days with some kind of melancholy now, back to when their arguments were easy and out loud. And there weren't as many thorns hidden beneath the surface of their voices.

Because in the end they had decided it didn't matter. They had each other and the future and things were not too bad that way.

Then Frisk came and took that future from them.

Not maliciously or ill-intended, though that doesn't change what they did. They gave it back of course, but not before its absence had torn them to pieces. The kind of damage their regret would never reverse.

"It's not you, is it?" Papyrus asks them. Because they're not. They're not the monster.

They are far greater than it could ever have hoped to be. They contain it and all that it created or destroyed. Built or demolished. Birthed or killed.

Ņ̛͠o̸t ͞h̡i̵̛͘m͟͟

"Then who?" His voice is soft, a counterweight to their loudness. Their noise. Static crackling with the voices of a hundred lost souls in constant agony.

W̢e̸̸ ͢ąŕ͢e͜ ҉hi̕s ̵l͘è͘͡g͘͟͡a̧c͟y͏ Like a million panes of glass shattering at the same moment, deafening. J̨u̷͠st́͢͢ ͘ĺi̷k̛̛e͝ y̴o̵̵̕u̸͠ ̡ar̷e

It hurts. Papyrus didn't think it could hurt anymore than it had earlier, but his head is splitting in two already, the bone cracking like a body of water that parts for the unmovable force of a ship. Ten thousand tons of metal tearing right through him.

"I am nobody." He says.

Y͡ó̕͏ų̢ ̛͠a̵̕͢re҉͞ ̶͝e̕͝v̡̨e̕ry̡t͘h̸̨i̕͜ǹ͘g̶

"Then why are you doing this to me?" He cradles his rib cage, tears out his soul and obliterates it if only he didn't have to feel this pain anymore. This sadness. This anger.

01000010011001010110001101100001011101010111001101100101001000000110010101110110011001010111001001111001011101000110100001101001011011100110011100100000011011100110010101100101011001000111001100100000011101000110111100100000011001010110111001100100

* * *

Then the earth comes to a standstill.

Except it hasn't, really. It probably logically couldn't. Papyrus wouldn't know, astronomy is a Sans thing, not a him thing.

But there's silence, a total absence of any impulse and he breathes it in for a second, basks in it gratefully, not even caring if he were dead.

He doesn't feel as tired as he thinks he should be.

The rooms is dark, Sans has drawn the curtains close and is now presumably hovering somewhere out of view, though definitely still there.

This isn't the first time Papyrus has pulled the good old fainting routine on him.

"Thanks for not leaving me on the floor this time." He mutters and sure enough his brother is by his side in an instant, forcing a smile.

It feels strained, even for his doing.

"That was one time." Sans sighs, doesn't comment on the fact that Papyrus is making a joke. Diverting the subject before the conversation even started. "It was the first time and I panicked."

He sits up, his head feels a bit fuzzy but ultimately fine and the hallucinatory truck has seemed to have left him alone this time, because the pain is gone too.

That tiny spark of optimism even a million resets couldn't wipe out tries to convince him that maybe it's all over now, but Papyrus doubts it.

"So you really were sick?" Sans asks, a leeway into another discussion that he doesn't feel like having right now. The entryway to a confession, perhaps.

"I guess so." Papyrus says and grins.

His brother studies his face for a moment, sullenly. Papyrus wonders if there's even a trace of recognition left. If they still know each other at all.

Or if maybe they're strangers.

"I'm sorry." Sans gets up then, turns his back on him awkwardly and opens the curtains just a tad, making the room look more or less normal again.

"For what?" Papyrus asks, his throat feels full of needles. Tiny pinpricks of uncomfortableness making it hard to speak. But it's silent still.

"I don't know." They meet eyes again. "For everything I'm supposed to be sorry for, I guess."

Something in the way Sans says that annoys him, makes some tiny flicker of guilt well up in his gut but Papyrus isn't anything if not adapt at snuffing that out.

If he tells him now, will it all just go away?

He opens his mouth to say something but Sans beats him to it.

"I applied for a job at that observatory place."

It comes as enough of a surprise to stop Papyrus dead in his tracks. There's something about telling your brother you've been hearing voices and getting hit by imaginary trucks that makes it hard to do so between casual statements about finding employment.

Sans takes his stunned look as one of confusion though.

"The place we went last fall? With the plastic planet models and-"

"Yeah, I know where Sans." He's thankful his voice sounds steady. Normal.

They're just having a brotherly talk, that's all.

"I visited their website and they were looking for people to act as guides you know, so- I'm sure they won't hire me, I just thought it might be better than sitting around at home all day."

Sans looks at him with such expectations, a child waiting for validation from a parent, and it's the type of role reversal that makes Papyrus kind of sick to his gut. That maybe he's not really the only one scared of being a disappointment these days.

And in that moment he knows he can't tell Sans.

He can't tell any of them.

"That's so good, Sans!" He says, bounding up with the kind of enthusiasm he used to be able to muster for things but feels foreign now. Even if he would be lying if he said it was completely faked, because in fact it is quite wonderful.

It just is the worst timing in the world.

Sans approaches, hesitates for a moment and then he's hugging him, hands clasped weirdly around his armor-less body and maybe it hadn't really sunk in until then how long it has been.

And that is quite wonderful as well.

But it hurts, like a tightness in his chest that presses on his sternum with indescribable weight.

Because he realizes Sans cares again, after all this while. He is caring and he is trying and he's moving on. And Papyrus is watching him go with lead down his boots and claws in his brain, dragging, scratching.

Suddenly wanting nothing more than to hold Sans closer and admit he's not fine at all. He's lying, he's always lying, he never stopped lying.

Telling him would ruin everything.

All of them, they have finally got all they ever wanted up here. And Papyrus could tear it down in an instant.

Or he could keep quiet. Let them have their happy ending.

Even if it means forsaking his own.

* * *

He wasn't out for long, it turns out. Barely an hour at most.

And with a few more shrugs and excuses it's easy to chalk up to his woefully lacking dietary and sleeping routines. Sans rolls his eyes at him, but doesn't say anything. It's not like his are any better after all.

They're both absolutely horrible.

They watch tv for a while, talking in a way that almost feels like before. It's so oddly nostalgic Papyrus thinks for a moment he could look out the window and see snow falling down outside.

For a stray second, but it's just the light reflecting off the window.

They're watching a quiz show, because old habits die hard sometimes, when the doorbell rings.

"Maybe it's the letter guy." Papyrus gets up quickly. Ever since coming to the surface his amount of correspondence has increased dramatically, to his infinite pleasure. Humans are a tad more eager with their mail it seems, sending each other flyers to inform others of the sales they're having or when you should buy a new car, or when somebody has died.

Monsters usually resort to plain, boring 'get out of your house and actually go tell people' for that.

Not to mention most of the letters address him with Sir. It's all very exciting.

"Ah, human Frisk." He says, upon seeing it is not Jerry the mailman. Whom is not actually called Jerry either, but Papyrus thinks it's a pretty fitting name so he bestowed Jerry that title.

Frisk smiles at him, eyes barely peeking out from above the large paper bag they're holding tight to their chest. Papyrus takes it from them before it can successfully crush them.

"We did not expect you but do come in." He says, silently begrudging the fact he probably has not vacuumed in 48 hours.

An episode of mild psychosis shouldn't be an excuse to skimp on your household duties, after all.

Sans has taken the opportunity of Papyrus' absence to completely claim the couch but it's no matter, as Frisk seems quite intent on entering their kitchen either way.

They point at themselves, then at him. "Cooking?"

Papyrus glances into the bag and sure enough, it's all the supplies needed to make lasagna. He isn't certain what he should be more impressed by, the fact that Frisk remembered him mentioning he wanted to try his hand at it again weeks ago, or their foresight to actually bring the ingredients, because he hasn't quite gotten around to shopping since-

"Papyrus?"

Their voice is soft, always slightly rough around the edges from disuse and he blinks at them, wondering what that stray thought was.

It wasn't a very nice one.

"Let's make some pasta, then." He says instead.

* * *

The thought lingers, takes root and manifests and it's heavy. It whispers to him again, but silently.

He recognizes it. Not the static but them.

Frisk taps his arm carefully. There's dirt underneath their fingernails, soil on their hands with yellow petals sticking to it. No, they washed them before starting.

Papyrus always makes them wash their hands.

'You ok?' They sign and swallow the words. Their eyes are dark and inscrutable. 'Still sick?'

"No, I'm better."

 _Don't tell them Don't tell them Don't tell themselves_

The corner of their mouth pulls up. Their hands move slowly, carefully. The knife in his hand shakes, or maybe it's his hand that's actually shaking or maybe it's him.

They're holding a knife too and there's dust on their hands.

Except there's no dust, just the knife. And they're cutting the vegetables with straight, determined cuts. As determined as slicing through a vertebrae.

 _They sure did that didn't they_

"I'm glad." They say and he feels like wrapping his hands around their neck and squeezing real tight. Until their skin turns red and blue and then pale. Until their fingers are clawing at his wrists and then he will squeeze harder still, wait for them to go limp.

"You and Sans." They look up and he looks back and it whispers.

 _There's only one way to make this right isn't there_

They lay down the knife and there's an almost irresistible urge to snatch it away from them Papyrus ignores. Maybe he will bury it in his own neck before they can.

'Are you two better too?'

"I think so." He says and they seem relieved. Or scared.

 _Not for long_

He can see it clearly then. It wouldn't be too hard.

Just grab the handle and shove it in. Push deep and hard until he feels something solid and then push harder still.

It would be red and it would be warm and they would bleed.

Papyrus isn't too familiar with blood yet but he could be if he wanted to.

And when he'd pull out they would stare at him. Their mouth would be a surprised little circle, a perfect loop like the one they forced him into. Like all the suffering they have let him endure.

 _But you can make sure it won't happen ever ever ever ever ever again ever ever ever EVER EVER EVER  
_

There's dust on their hands, surely. On his hands too.

He thinks it's not real, can't tell what is anymore, until they make a noise, high-pitched and surprised and that jars him out of it. He's never heard them that loud.

And he looks down, part of his ring finger is gone and he's still holding the knife that did it.

"Whoopsie..." He laughs, giggles almost. Because it hurts like hell but the voices are silent.

Maybe they're surprised too. Or drowned out by the rush in his head, the sudden lightheadedness of having cut of his own-

They're fussing over him already, calling Sans in and the worry in their eyes is endearing, real. Genuine as can be.

And more importantly, nobody is telling Papyrus to stab them anymore.

* * *

 **Thank you guys endlessly for the comments. I'm glad you're enjoying the read as much as I'm enjoying writing. Let me know how that code is working out for you!  
**

 **One of my notes for this chapter was: 'cooking 101: only stab the vegetables'**


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm going to put the translation of the code from the previous chapter in the next chapter beginning note so that those who want to can solve them, but those that don't won't have to.**

 **Translation of binary code of previous chapter: Because everything needs to end**

* * *

Cutting off your own finger isn't is bad as it seems. Not for a monster anyway.

As long as the soul is intact, magic can recreate any pieces you might accidentally break along the way. Including a chopped off digit.

It doesn't keep Sans from fussing over him though, eye sockets wide and worried and if he wasn't feeling so numb maybe Papyrus would be impressed by the sudden surge of energy his brother is displaying.

"It's fine, I just got distracted." He says, waving his hand and the dust trickles off onto the floor. He gets up to get a dustpan but Frisk is clinging to his leg, mouth set into a tight line of discomfort and maybe just a tiny bit of guilt.

Papyrus wishes he could say this isn't their fault, if even for a minuscule amount, but he can't.

 _Lying lying Lying gets you nowhere_

He smiles at them and it's easier now because the voices are quieter. Just a single whispering pitch that might as well be his own. The static is gone and he only feels pain and nothingness. The best he has felt in a while.

"It was an accident." Frisk whispers, voice rough like they're trying not to cry and Sans glares at them with something in his face that even makes Papyrus uncomfortable.

A gaping pit between them that they're only just learning how to cross and it's been more than a year, yet it's still too early.

Sans looks at him instead.

"You need to take it easy, Pap." He says, softly. Tenderness not often displayed, not anymore.

 _Broken like little toys you are_

And Papyrus nods, squeezes his brother's hand. "I need to go see Alphys."

Sans looks surprised, he probably wasn't expecting for Papyrus to admit this is something he can't fix just by locking it inside and pretending it isn't happening, but pleased too.

"Ok, we ca-"

"No, I'll go to talk to her by myself." He says quickly and he can already see the hesitance creep up on his brother's face, the argument hiding beneath the surface.

Papyrus knows just how to snuff that out.

"I'm not a little kid, Sans. I can take care of myself."

It's not a statement. An accusation, maybe. Sans lets go of his hand quickly, stuffs his own down his pockets instead.

"Yeah, of course bro."

Frisk is looking between them, silently and they let go of him too. Wipe the dust of their hands.

 _They'll never be clean of it though_

"In fact, I'll do it right now." Papyrus gets up, clenches a fist and it still hurts. It aches and the noise is silenced. "I'll be back by diner."

His scarf is hanging on a peg by the door and he pulls it down again, wraps it securely around him and it belongs there. As much a part of him as the memories and the doubts

 _and us_

and the guilt.

* * *

He decides against taking his car for the short trip.

Usually even the few streets it takes to get to the ex-royal scientist's house is a valid excuse for him to get behind the wheel. Papyrus would live in that car if he could. (He actually did the fist few days after he got it, but it was just horribly inconvenient)

But right now a walk is exactly what he needs. The chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves and the blessed quiet.

Papyrus always liked the surface. He distantly remembers the very first time he saw it. The sunshine and the clouds and the stars. He remembers the first time they went to the ocean.

How it struck him as odd, such a large endless body of water, and odder still that somewhere beyond the waves, stretched further still than the horizon, was more land.

More humans and more mountains and more more more.

 _So much more you'll never get to see_

And the funny thing, the truly wondrous thing, is that Papyrus didn't get used to it. He got used to waking up on the same day countless of times. He got used to fake smiling and pretending he wasn't lonely and he even got used to dying.

Those last dozen of times it almost didn't matter anymore.

But there is something about the surface that just never gets old. The first time he saw the ocean it was the coolest thing he ever saw. And the twelfth time it was the coolest thing still.

 _How many more first times will there be then?_

He has no answers.

* * *

Undyne isn't home when he gets there and that's a small mercy at least in what is shaping up to be a very awkward conversation.

Alphys opens the door after he rings three times. Papyrus isn't sure if she was just too preoccupied to notice or if she was willfully hoping that whomever was at the door would just go away if she ignored them long enough.

She smiles when she sees it's him though, visibly relaxing and she lets him in, stuttering out an offer of tea and cookies.

As tempting as it is to accept and play pretend normalcy for a little longer, Papyrus knows he might lose his nerve is he doesn't get to the point quickly.

"I have a problem."

 _A bit of an understatement, wouldn't you say?_

"Is it about Sans again?" She asks, clearly remembering the talk they had a few days ago in the park and her concern is endearing but just the mention of his brother's name is too much for Papyrus right now.

"No it's... nothing like that." He waves his hand and she notices, because of course she does.

"Papyrus what did you-" She grabs his wrist, surprisingly firm and holds it up to her face with a frown. "What happened?"

"It was an accident." He says, thinking of Frisk and how everything is always an accident with them.

 _You don't believe it could have been one big accident all this time do you?_

"Does it hurt?" She says, then kind of folds in on herself, pressing one hand to her forehead. "Dumb question, Al, of course it hurts. I can try to fix it?"

Papyrus laughs, for real, because he has not deserved any of this but by gosh does it feel nice. He wishes he could tell her that.

"No, it's fine, really. It will get better by itself." He pulls back his hand and she lets go after a second of what almost could be described as a pout. "It's not important."

"I'm sure it's not." She says, because liars are just liars and it takes one to know one.

Alphys is smart. Smarter than most people Papyrus knows, smarter than Sans probably. Which is exactly why he needs her.

"I need your help, Alphys." He says, crossing his arms and glancing at the wall. "But you're not allowed to tell Sans about it. I know you two are friends."

The former royal scientist looks at him, worries at the edges of her sleeves and he knows the request makes her horribly uncomfortable but he won't be able to speak freely otherwise.

"Please?" He mutters.

"Yeah, ok." She says. "J-just tell me what's happening."

* * *

Half-truths are better than whole lies.

Papyrus doesn't know who said that. How the idea popped into his head and took root. And it's probably not accurate anyway.

But as he walks home he keeps repeating it in his mind, over and over again. He told her some things, told her about the dreams and the headaches and the memory loss.

The important bits.

Didn't mention the voices or the trucks though. No point in going that far.

And he told her about the machine. He was surprised to learn she kind of knew about it already. Sans never told him where he got it exactly, just told him it was something he wanted to work on. Figures he also failed to mention he got it from Alphys in the first place.

 _Sans never tells anybody anything_

Or from her lab, anyway. She wasn't exactly familiar with it, had been busy with other, more pressing things. Barrier breaking things. And it was just a silly old machine left behind by the royal scientist who came before her.

Whomever that was.

He opens the door, glad that it's unlocked because in his hurry to flee the scene he had forgotten to bring his keys.

The kitchen is cleaned, the food left mid-preparation. Frisk is nowhere to be seen.

"What did Alphys say?" Sans asks, almost casually but the newspaper is creasing against his fingers, bending in his hold. He's not very good at acting cool when he's trying too hard.

"Not much." Papyrus says. "That I'm overworking myself and just need some rest."

 _Half-truths half-lies_

"Haven't heard that one before." Sans chuckles, but there's some doubt lingering in his voice still. He lays down the paper and he's smiling, happy.

They whisper at him. Whispers how easy it would be to wipe that smirk of his dumb deceitful face.

And Papyrus presses the remaining part of his finger into a fist and squeezes.

"You would tell me if something was wrong, right Pap?"

He doesn't know where the question comes from, doesn't want to know. Why are they always doing this to each other?

"Of course I would."

 _lies lies lies_

"It's important, Papyrus." Sans gets up, takes a step closer and lingers. "I know we've had or issues in the past but if we want to make this work now we got to-"

Hearing this just makes everything worse.

"Sans, it's fine."

 _lies lies lies_

And then the anger comes. It surges up into his brothers face, suddenly and Papyrus can't really remember the last time he has seen Sans actually mad about something. He seems so disaffected by everything this sudden emotion feels foreign.

"It's not fucking fine, Papyrus." He's cursing, looking at the floor and at him and it shakes him, shakes the world. "You always say it's fine when it isn't and I hate it. Pretending isn't going to solve anything."

"I'm not pretending-"

 _lies lies lies_

"No! I'm sick of this. I'm sick of you lying to me and me lying to you. I'm sick of being scared, Pap. Scared you're going to fall apart the minute I turn my fucking back on you!"

"That's not going to happen, Sans."

 _lies lies lies_

"Then stop doing these things because you think you're making things better. Stop trying to-"

"I know!"

Papyrus doesn't yell. Not at Sans. Until he does.

And he's holding him. Crushing his brother against his chest again, something they do now. Something he missed and isn't letting go off ever again.

Not even if it breaks him.

"I know, Sans. I know."

And Sans sobs. He's not crying, skeletons don't really cry, but there's a strange intake of breath they don't need, a shudder that rips through his body and his hands are clinging at the scarf Papyrus forgot to take off when he entered.

"I'm sorry, Pap. I'm so sorry."

"I'm not angry with you, Sans. Promise."

 _lies lies lies_

Papyrus sighs into it, because if this is all he can do to make things better then it's the only thing that matters. And when he speaks it doesn't waver.

"I'm not going to hurt you again."

 _truth_

* * *

They visit him again that night. He knew they would.

They curls around him in a mocking approximation of what he felt earlier, a comforting blanket of coldness and noise.

Ẃ̷a̧͟͜s͟͜n͜'t͟ ̢t̡̕h̕͏a̢̡҉t ̷̶̨e͟͡a͏s̡ý͘?͡҉̛

It was. Easier than he could have ever imagined.

"I'm not going to give you what you want." He says, and they drag along his spine, like nails digging into bone. "Whatever that is."

I̧ń ͢t̷̷i̡m̷̨̧e̢

W̜̱͇̞̻h͇͍̣ḁ̬t̘̩͖͇̟̮͖e̠v̙er̰̥̝̱̹ ͉̖̥E͍͎̺̩̳ṉ̭̙͈͉d̤̺̘s̜̜͚̲͎̳ Wi͍̤̭̹̭ll̪̬̱̺͉̝ ̲̤I͍̥ͅnv̫̼̥o̪̜̟l̲̪̥̺̫v̦̝e̠̗̱̳̟̻͓ ͓͈̣̹Lo̺s̼̜̰͇s ͎̝Li̻̖͚̘̪v͙̦̙i͕͉n̲̖̼g̺̞͕̖̙͚ B̪̜̞͚͎̲̯e̘͙̤y͚̖̖̙͇͈o͇̝̘͕n͇͚d͎͕̪ ̪̙̙͉̪̙̮Ḙ̙̮͎̰̰͇v̩̱͉̹e̺̤̭͕͕̞r͈̫͈̫̪̲̠y̪͖t͕h̼͙͎̦̥̣ḭn͓̼̙̹g͈̗͎̪̝̗ ͕B͇e̱͎̘̲̹̦͇f͔̤̳o̙̠͎ͅrḙ̱͍̝̹̘ ̱̹̫̪͇O̙͓͔̰̟̬ṵ̬̘r̺̺̠ ͎̯͕̙͍R͖͈̫͉e͎̪͎̹͇̙̼c̼̳̳̣̻̖k͚̫̼̹o̟̹͓͍ͅni̞̳̺̘̬̭̼n̞̥̝̥̗̲̗g͔̟̞̝ͅ ̙͙̥͓͉Ni̹̱͉̤̘g̳̠ht̗̰͍̟̜


	7. Chapter 7

**Hidden message in the previous chapter (taking the first letter of every word in the final sentence): We Will Be Born**

* * *

The next day his finger is fine, no healing magic required. It would have sped up the process, sure, but maybe Papyrus just needs to be able to lie in his bed at 3 AM in the morning, feel the icy trickling of nightmares down his spine and be allowed to drown that out with a simple squeeze.

The pain washes over him, overwhelms the trickling like a flood and shrouds him in something almost comfortable. An ache either physical or mental or a bit of both.

And he's almost disappointed when it heals.

The static is a constant now, so he barely even notices it. It's become a background noise to his everyday business. But when its loudness swells, their voices pitched weirdly and overlaying itself, makes it too hard to concentrate he misses the pain.

Like when he's opening his bedroom window and they urge him to take a quick plunge. Not the 'this situation is awkward I better make a speedy exit' kind of plunge, but the 'skull shattering upon impact' kind.

Or when he's outside to get the mailbox, waves a greeting to mailman Jerry, and every single fiber of his being is telling him to start walking walking walking away from all of this and never, ever look back.

Or when the knife in the kitchen drawer gets just a little bit too tempting.

 _Who needs their fingers anyway_

Sans is up early for a change, a clear sign that the events from yesterday are still affecting him too and Papyrus throws down the letters he retrieved in front of his brother, who still pays their bills.

About the only household chore Sans has ever taken upon himself to fulfill with vigor. Probably because it doesn't require much more than to sit there and fill out some papers.

"Oh, it's from the observatory." He says suddenly, holding up a large, rectangular envelope Papyrus hadn't even noticed earlier. Any mail that doesn't personally address him usually fails to catch his interest.

"What does it say?" He asks, back turned towards Sans as he goes about making himself a nice bowl of oatmeal, ignoring the urge to break open his bones and scoop the marrow out with the spoon.

That would not only be painful, but awfully dramatic too.

He turns around and Sans isn't reading the letter anymore, instead staring at Papyrus with a kind of dumbfounded expression that doesn't say much.

 _He noticededhenotice you fucking idiot you screwed upp_

Squeezing doesn't help because there's only whole bones there now.

"They said yes." Sans says evenly, his voice flat in a way that doesn't indicate a lack of emotion as much as an abundance of such. Unable to contain it, his face breaks out in a smile, a genuine smile and if Papyrus could just rip all his digits off right now that would be nice.

 _He didn't notice shit_

"That's great, Sans." And he sounds about as happy as he doesn't feel, an awful paradox ruling his life for ages now but at least there's something to be said about lying.

That it's like riding a bike. You never quite forget how, falling off hurts like hell and you might just ride it straight into oncoming traffic without even noticing.

Or something along those lines.

"We should do something to celebrate." He hears himself suggest. It wasn't so much a conscious decision as is was an automated response. Good stuff happens, we do something joyful.

That's how family works, right?

 _God you're pathetic_

"Like what?" Sans asks, the paper is shaking in his hand and ironically this the happiest Papyrus has probably seen him in ages, though it's still a subdued kind of excitement. The tentative first steps of a child too afraid to fall on their face.

 _And all that time all those things you did for him- who knew all it would take was one pathetic little letter_

"I don't know." He says lamely.

'Maybe we could go find a cliff and fling ourselves off it. That could be fun.' He thinks.

"What about..." Sans starts then stops. Papyrus has the distinct impression his brother is looking for an activity he would enjoy and coming up short.

 _He has no idea what you like because you only like wallowing in self pity, don't you?_

"We could go get ice cream?"

Papyrus doesn't even like ice cream. It's cold and it melts, not unlike snow, but it gets your fingers all sticky and he hates it with a burning passion akin to the flaming pits of Hotland and how much he despises those as well.

"We should go get ice cream." He agrees.

* * *

He gets one scoop and Sans gets three because Papyrus knows what moderation is and his brother obviously doesn't.

They sit on the same bench they always sit on, staring at the pond and the ducks and the clouds and for once Papyrus can allow it to sink in. This is the surface.

This is it.

 _This is nothing_

"I didn't really think they'd reply, actually." Sans says, casually and Papyrus looks at him. There's something distant about him that is very unsettling.

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Sans shrugs, and when he smiles it's empty.

 _Don't ask don't ask don't ask_

"Sans." Maybe he's not whining per se. Whining is what he used to do when Sans would go out to Grillby and leave him by himself, alone, abandoned.

"It's no big deal." Sans says, which means it's definitely a big deal. "I guess I just- I don't know."

There's a hand on his shoulder. Papyrus doesn't look because he knows there's nothing there, except there is, digging in its invisible claws and he wants to yell at them that this isn't the best time but they wouldn't listen anyway.

"I think I hoped they wouldn't answer, you know." Sans explains eventually. "I don't know if I can... do this."

"Of course you can."

His brother looks at him, kind of frowning and kind of grinning and Papyrus slips into his role like slipping into an old pair of shoes. Effortlessly, even with the pebble stabbing your sole, tearing open your feet, making every single step agony.

 _Don't you feel it?_

"Sans, I know I don't say this too often, because frankly you are unfathomably lazy to an extent that even baffles me still." Papyrus lays one hand on his brother's shoulder, mimicking, comforting.

 _Nails digging in deeper deeper deeper_

"But you really have nothing to worry about. You are even more unfathomably competent than you are lazy. When you want to, that is. And I think you want to this time."

"But what if I can't." Sans' voice is small, laced with fright. A fright born out of hope. Out of possibility.

A fright only real because now there is a future where there was none before, something to fail at, and in a way it breaks Papyrus' heart.

 _Caring is going to hurt_

"You can." He says, and it's so much easier when he's not lying. "I believe in you."

Sans laughs, fragile but sincere and he looks at Papyrus with the kind of admiration they used to share. The kind that rotted and withered and might be coming back if it didn't have the worst possible timing.

"Thanks, bro." Sans huffs, like a load has been lifted from his shoulders and Papyrus would be happy about that if it didn't feel like that weight had been transported straight onto his own rib cage. "I kind of needed that."

"Sure." Because there's only one thing he's good for after all.

 _He won't need you forever._

* * *

tfel eb lliw tahw uoy gnideen spots eh nehw dna

* * *

They go home and he calls Alphys but she doesn't pick up. The lightheadedness has set in again, and to avoid a repeat one-way trip to another face plant, Papyrus decides the couch is his best bet.

He would try his room but he doesn't trust himself to be alone right now.

Not that Sans is paying much attention, he's typing away on his fancy surface computer but it's the thought that counts.

For a while, he aimlessly switches between various human channels. If there's one thing that quickly became apparent after coming to live on the surface was that their daytime television left something to be desired.

There's something relatively distracting on though, and Papyrus tries to concentrate on it instead of drowning in a rising sense of apathy.

It would be rather concerning, really. Indifference is more of a Sans thing, but then his thoughts circle back and it's fine, fine fine fine

riding a bicycle straight down the cliff-

It's static.

He changes the channel and it's static, more static, more static

l ke m ybe so ethi g is 't con ect ng prop rly a ymo e

he turns the tv off and it's the windows too. Outside, an endless snowfall of gray specks, dust? Static, probably. He gets up and closes the curtains.

And the world just gets smaller. Narrows down to the point of no return.

It clamps around his throat like a vice and he can't breathe.

"Papyrus." Sans says, and then his mouth just keeps moving but nothing comes out except more static.

"What?" He asks, maybe a bit brisker than he intends and the words are tooclosetogethertomakesense.

"I uhm- I don't know. I'm going to my room."

The door slams. He locks it just in case but he wouldn't hear if Sans were knocking over the noise anyway and it hurts again, bounces against the insides of his skull.

The truck is back with a vengeance.

"Could you just knock it off for a minute." He says, because he knows they listen. Always listening. "This is just getting rude now."

And when he looks in the mirror they look back at him. Shifting in and out of focus endlessly, rolling like the waves of an ocean wrecked with storms. Laying their hands on him again, only two but they have many. As many as they have voices and faces and souls.

"What do you want?"

You've ̷as̢k͜e҉d ̸t͢h̛is b͜efo̸ŗe͞

It moves, within him. It has a weight that feels foreign inside his head, but rests there, undisturbed. Lingers until it doesn't.

We͞ ͠on͞ĺy ̴w͟ant ̛b̵açk̀ ́wha̵t͟ ͝wa̸s ͢t͟ak̛e͘n f̸r̴o̸m̶ u̴s͢

"I didn't take anything." As it oozes out of his eye sockets, drips down his jaw. Everywhere it touches burns, peels off into layers that expose the hollowness beneath.

And the worst thing is Papyrus knows for a fact that it isn't real.

The̶re̷ ̴is ͡a ŕéason ̴for e͢v́eryth̵i͡n͜g͜. ͟The͜r͘è i̷s ̀a҉ re͡a͘son̡ ͝f͜or ҉us. T̕herè is̸ ̧a̶ ͘r͏e̕a͡s͝on ̸for͠ yo͢u̵

Tremors wreak his frame, and he crawls towards them on hands and knees, comes so close to them it aches except they are too far for him to reach. They inch closer to him still. "Why me?"

He will keep asking again and again.

Be͜càus̨e ̷yo̸u̕ a͜r͘e̵ ͠a pięc͜e͏ ́of͞ ͟hi̷m u͝s̴

It's like the entire world is crumbling down around him, swallows him, a perfect simile for the death he can't embrace any longer.

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

For͝e̶ver͞ a̢nd ̡a bįt͢

His punches them and the mirror breaks into a hundred pieces, glass raining down hard and he can only pray Sans didn't hear. It drowns out their voices like an avalanche and Papyrus doesn't waste time grabbing a shard and squeezing, digging it into his hand.

Pressing it in harder until there's only pain and dust and they are gone, faded towards a background of static that he is more and more starting to recognize for what it is. Not just white noise but something worse. The sound of countless of souls in a constant state of agony.

And the vice grows only tighter.

"Papyrus?" There's Sans knocking on his door, rattling the doorknob and a second wave of relief washes over him just from remembering to lock it earlier.

"Y-yeah?" His voice is shaky and he hopes he can play it off as a 'I was taking a nap and just woke up' kind of voice and not the 'I'm purposefully hurting myself in order not to deal with a possible eldritch abomination inside my head' tone it actually is.

"Everything alright in there? Did you knock over something?"

"Seems like it." And he squeezes the shard harder still, until they can feel the marrow leak out. "It was an accident."

 _Clumsy Papyrus, always messing things up_

"It's fine." He says, getting up shakily. Sans doesn't ask why the door is locked and Papyrus doesn't tell him. "I'm fine."

 _How much longer then?_

* * *

 ** _A big shout out to all the peeps that bother to comment. You are what I'm writing for._**


	8. Chapter 8

**Message in last chapter (backwards text): and when he stops needing you what will be left**

* * *

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck-" He mutters, a litany of curses that feel maybe too sharp, sudden. Unlike him.

Except it isn't really. Papyrus dislikes using foul language in front of people, it is unbecoming of somebody like him. Somebody that aspires to be a royal guard and help people and be a hero, _anybody's_ hero.

 _More like nobody_

But that doesn't mean he doesn't use any bad words ever. It's hard not to pick up a nasty habit or two when you live together with Sans 'what do you mean a fork is not an acceptable utensil to use when consuming liquids'. His brother can be worse than a human at times.

"Do you need help t-" The skeleton in question now asks, rattling the door handle again as if it would have magically unlocked in the few seconds he has been standing there.

"No, it's fine Sans." Papyrus says, but he can't move. Their hands are still upon him, crawling down his spine and any inch he moves now would just make them claw in deeper, harder, more permanent. The pain burns something fierce but it's barely a spark against their cold.

They are the absence of anything that is worthwhile.

 _Though more numerous than you can imagine_

There's dust on the floor but he hasn't cut too deep yet, nothing he can't fix right away. He clenches his hands together, tries to concentrate on the healing magic but it's hard when everybody seems to be demanding your attention this very second.

"Papyrus, what the- What have you done!?" And then Sans is in the room, staring at him with something frightening in his eyes.

 _Frightened of what then?_

The door is still locked and it takes a good second to sink in what has happened and then it does, like a sickening lurch when you suddenly pull on the steering wheel despite going a hundred miles an hour.

 _Gee, talk about a breach of privacy_

And it wells up, more painful than the cut or the insecurity or the fear. More painful than them. Sans did not just do that-

"Get out!" He says, high pitched and it would be awkward, how much he sounds like an angsty teenager getting angry at his parents for punishing him with house arrest, but he doesn't care right now.

He only cares about having a door with a lock on it and his brother showing him the little respect that should grant him on keeping people out. Even if those people just so happen to have the kind of magic that makes any wall obsolete.

"Pap, I- Did you hurt yourself?"

 _Not in the way you think he did_

"Sans please just get out." He can barely force it out, they are inside him, amplifying his anger, making him feel as if he just might burst and he hates it he hates being angry and he hates wanting to throw a fit and

"Bro, I'm just concerned, ok?" Sans might be rolling his eyes at him, a father feeling tested in his patience by a child that doesn't know better. Doesn't know what is good for them.

A father who doesn't really care, does he?

 _No need to dredge that up right now_

Papyrus doesn't feel it snap. Not physically at least. It isn't the kind of thing that can be compared to a glass of water slowly overflowing, where you can pinpoint the exact drop that made things spill.

It is much more horrible than that.

"Sans- I am serious-" Without thinking, he's grabbing his brother by the wrist, dragging him around like he's a rag doll, ignoring the pained gasp he gets in a response. Every single fiber of his being is telling him to do something bad and the only thing that matters is he regain enough common sense not to do so right now. "Just get the fuck out!"

Papyrus has always been the stronger one, there never was any doubt about that. Sans is weak. Weaker than either of them likes to admit and as long as he has his speed he could outmatch nearly anyone but that doesn't matter when Papyrus is pulling, pushing, opening the door with his free hand and practically flinging him out of the room.

He pretends he doesn't hear the noise of Sans hitting the wall.

The door closes with a bang, not locked this time because that doesn't matter and Papyrus tries to concentrate on dispelling his magic, not doing anything he will regret.

 _Far too late for that_

He wants to hurl, the realization that he probably just did something he can't ever come back from becoming more real with the second, he tries to comfort himself with how much worse it could be.

How much worse everything could be.

He sighs, their claws drag lower still, wrap around his hands in a mocking of everything he needs right now, curls finger around finger.

Wi̢ll y̴oų ͏c͏óm̀e ̀he͢ar̸ ̛us out?͞

Papyrus nods.

He has been acting like a brat all day, he might as well complete the picture. He opens the window, considers maybe leaving a note but can't think of anything that wouldn't make this situation infinitely worse.

 _Running away from your problems? Typical_

One last ditch effort to make things right, then.

* * *

He always forgets it isn't good decorum to visit somebody in the middle of the night. But seeing as Undyne has been at the receiving end of this oversight before, Papyrus hopes she doesn't mind as much this time.

He's only knocking for a good three minutes before she opens the door, rubbing sleep from her eyes and when she notices it's him she forces a crooked smile.

"Papyrus? This better not just be another courtesy visit." She complains good humorously, and he is reminded of way way way _way_ back when they first properly met. When he went chasing after her like a moth after a flame, drenched in hope that maybe this would be the one person that understood his aspirations and recognized his ability to achieve them.

That didn't quite turn out the way he expected it too, but that's another spite entirely.

"Is Alphys awake?" he asks, kind of a stupid question he thinks, seeing as Undyne was so obviously awakened by him too, but to his surprise she nods.

"Uhm, yeah, I think so? Come in and I'll go check."

He follows her into the hallways then stands awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to another. His entire body feels filled with curious excitement and dread, it makes him want to bang his head against something solid.

Undyne comes back a minute later, one hand smoothing the hair out of her face and she leans against the wall next to him. "She'll be here in a sec."

Papyrus opens his mouth, closes it because that's just a very rude thought altogether. Not to mention it would imply indecent things!

But as the silence stretches out between them, he can't help but be curious.

"You two uh- don't sleep together?"

There's a slight incline of the head, something like laughter bubbling in her chest and he's already face palming before she answers.

"Oh, plenty. Way more than plenty, don't you worry about that." She chuckles. Papyrus tries to refrain from making eye contact, feeling his face oddly heat up despite the situation he has found himself in. "And we do also sleep together sometimes. Alphys just doesn't need as much. She's kind of baffling, like you."

Papyrus can only hum in response. He slept well for a while but now it feels like he can barely recall the last time he has actually been in an comfortable enough state to rest up.

Undyne sounds as if she wants to say some more but luckily Alphys comes to his rescue. She looks incredibly worried and Papyrus realizes he hadn't actually stated his business.

"The machine..." He starts, deciding to skip the small talk because every passing second makes his gut feel alive with crawling things, full of nervous energy. "I need to know where you got it."

"I told you where I got it..." She says, glancing at him and it's so hard when he's talking to somebody that actually sees right through him.

"I need to know exactly where though. Specific location instructions." He tries. "Coordinates might help too."

"Papyrus, y-you shouldn't- Not alone."

"We barely know what kind of mess was left down there, Pap." Undyne adds, very alert all of the sudden.

They're like the second set of parents he never wanted.

"No, I took care of it." He lies, because he has burned so many bridges today, he might as well collapse this one too. "And Sans is coming with me."

The hesitation lingers on their faces and it crosses his mind to just turn around and leave. The lab isn't _that_ big, Papyrus is sure he can find what he needs to find. Whatever that might be.

 _Solid plan you got there, kid_

"Well, I wrote it down somewhere so..." Alphys trails off, eyes scanning his face again and he grins awkwardly, hates himself with the kind of rib cage clenching emotion he reserves for special occasions.

He hopes he isn't screwing this up even more.

"I'll go get it."

* * *

The climb up the mountain is relatively quick and reminds him of Frisk in many ways. The sky is cloudless and there's a million stars blinking down at him, silence so thorough it drags at his bones.

He reaches the entrance to New Home without a hitch, stopping for a moment to consider the gaping pit of darkness leading into their old prison. Maybe he should have waited for day to come around before returning, but when he's come all this way there's hardly a point in going back.

 _Nearly there now_

They hum, their agreement rings like a million kinds of laughter. They are not any closer or realer than they were before, but this place reeks of familiarity to them, Papyrus can tell.

They are more at home here than he has ever been.

The inside is worse than he had imagined. Stones have crumbled with age, plants are growing everywhere yet the flowers are dead. It's colder than he expected too.

A corpse. That's the only thing Papyrus can liken it too. The entire kingdom has fallen, bereft of its people and what's left is laughable, a children's toy set mimicking something that once was real. It's more bitter than when Undyne was queen. more so than him even.

 _It's nothing anymore_

clóser ̀cl̢o͢s͘er clo҉s̢er͘

"I'll be there." He says, more to them than to himself. They're practically always listening anyway, vibrating with longing.

H͟ea̸d͡ ͠o͠n ̡to meet us͞.̴ ̡He͠ad̕s̛t͘r̕ơnģ t̵o ̡d̀ie

Hotland is as unpleasant as it always was, but the lab is dark and cool, smelling of something rotten or going stale. Acid lingers in the air and once again Papyrus can only be thankful for the lack of lungs.

The entire world speeds up, static, slows down and crawls forward at a snail's pace then skips the next scene and he's going down, deeper, into the belly of the beast.

Except the monsters are long gone and only this is left.

Much like upstairs, it's not as impressive as he thought it would be either. There is no grand revelation, no flickering lights or big explosions or even a little relief from the ache. Only another dark and dusty room full of broken equipment, cables hanging limply from the ceiling and empty glass bottles, papers covering the ground. And the odd sensation that they are where they belong.

Th͡is̛ i̕s ͟whe͜re͢ ̢w̡e w͞èr̵e born

̕T͢his̡ ̡i͘s wh̀e̶re ͟w̴e ha̛ve͢ ̵dįęd͏

Every single one of them a flicker, a soul. Too many for him to reliably count. So many only one answer makes sense, though it's too horrifying for him to truly consider it.

"Will you give me a straight answer now?" Papyrus asks, the energy draining from him by the ounce and they smile with teeth that are sharp like ice, razors. Bones and scales and fur.

He is afraid to understand.

We a͝r͢e ͞t́he ͞on̷es̷ ̢tha̕t came̶ ̡b̧ef̷ore and͜ t̴he͏ o̶nes̕ t͟h̶a͡t̢ ̀w͜ere̛ f͠orgo͢tt҉e͞n̨

Their sounds are a singular note, one voice speaking for them all, but Papyrus keeps realizing better and faster that this is more numerous than he can contain, something beyond mathematical consideration. A special kind of amalgamate all of its own design, with no body to fester in.

"What happened?" He feels like a child. A toddler groping for the answers to the world's questions and barely capable of understanding such basic concepts as object permanence while he's at it.

 _You're too dumb for your own good_

H͝e ͠h́a̧ppęn̡e͘d.͢ ͝He ̕t͠ri͜ed̢ t͝o̡ ͜m̡a̴kę thi͟n҉gs ̵righ̨t ̸b҉u̢t̀ s̕w͘allowed͏ ̴us ̧w̨hole͟. ̷He t͝ri̡ed͟ ̢to ͞f͜i̢x̧ ͞b̷u̢t ̕o̕ǹl͞y͝ d͠es͏troy̨ed͏.҉

Papyrus can only gasp, cradle his skull with every new wave of pain washing over him and he still doesn't know who this 'he' is but he has a sickening suspicion.

"It's not my fault he killed you."

I͢f̛ he ͠kill͏e҉d̷ us ̕w͠e̷ ͘w̨oul̛dn't̛ ͡be͘ ̴h́er̷e̡.̨ I͏f he k͡i̕l̨l̢e̕d u͞s̕ ͢ẃȩ ̨w̛o͡ul҉dn'̡t͠ be ͜s͝uffer̛i̶n̷g. He cond̶emne͞d̀ u͜s͡ ͜t̀o a f̨a̴t̶e͞ ̴w̛o͞r͢s͠e͟ ͢th͠a̵n ̛d͏e͢a҉th

"Still not my fault." He forces it out between clenching teeth, begs them to leave him alone this final time. Doesn't know what he'd do if they refuse.

H̶e ͡c̛r҉ęated͠ us͟ ́l̕i̛ke h̨e͘ cre͏ated̵ you͘. ͜H̢e̷ ͘ha͡d save̡d yo͢ư li̛ke h̵e ͟had f̵ǫrsaken͝ ̵us̶.͘ It ís̶ ͡o̶n̢ly̡ f̴air t͜ha͞t̕ ̨yo̧u͜ ͞m̢ake̵ thi̢ńg̕s͠ ͝righ́t̸

The ground is trembling, shaking. His fingers dig against the tiles but find no purchase. An earthquake except nothing is breaking except his fragile sense of reality. "How?"

And they show him.

* * *

 **Gee things sure are looking grim. no message in this one fyi**


	9. Chapter 9

_Once upon a time there was a kingdom without a king. For he had lost both his children and his wedded, and he was deep in mourning, and his people had fallen into despair._

 _Once upon a time there was a monster, with garbled speech and holes in his hands. And this monster was nothing if not practical, calculating to a fault, monster in more than just race._

 _And the king tasked the monster with the weight of the world on his shoulders._

* * *

The world seemingly clears up around him, slowly coming back into focus with each laborious blink as the ringing in his skull somehow subsides to a singular muted high pitch Papyrus can almost ignore.

He gets up, pressing one hand to the wall to keep from keeling over as he slowly stumbles out of the room. His step leaves discolored footprints in the dust, one track leading away from that horrible place. No matching track leading to the hellhole where he came from.

* * *

 _Unspeakable things unfolded. Things made of pain and sorrow. Things made of bones and dust. And the monster created two creatures he called his own, bestowed upon them parts of his soul and with it part of his mission._

 _In his effort to save the king's heedless lost children, the monster had become a creator father himself._

 _And then he tested them until they broke._

* * *

Papyrus has to stop at the elevator, his head sending wave after wave of detached disorientation through him. It's almost as bad as back in the beginning, when he first resets hit and it felt like the entire world was falling apart a little bit.

After a while he can move again, forcing himself the small distance into the contraption before smashing the button and leaning against the wall gratefully.

He needs to get out of here and he doesn't care if he has to crawl to achieve it.

* * *

 _In the end something else was born. Something made of metal and magic and gears and power. Something they told the monster wouldn't work and the monster looked down upon them with a scowl made of emptiness and told them it would have no choice but to do so._

 _But p_ _ride goeth before destruction and_ _ _an haughty spirit before the fall__ _._

 _And fall he did._

* * *

Sans was wrong. The crystals embed in their Underground ceiling look nothing like real stars. Only a fool would think that.

Papyrus doesn't consider himself a fool.

Finally there is a sunlight, some warmth filling up the air and he has to stop and rest again, fingers pressing into dirt and the rot of flowers keeps him company, their color faded to a sickly brown.

Their voices are quiet at last, though only time will tell if they'll remain that way. They are only waiting now.

* * *

 _But rarely does one fall alone._

 _Everything that was, crumbled with the monster, swallowed away into a place, a void, far beyond anybodies imagination or reach._

 _And death would have been a more merciful fate, an ending to all that was. Instead of a beginning to the suffering that had to be endured as punishment for his mistakes. For the monster and his people, except two, his timeline, everybody in that underground prison, was with him in that dark place._

 _And the pain was with them too._

* * *

"Gee, Papyrus... I didn't really expect to see you ever again."

Another blink, a flash of yellow among the dun. Papyrus smiles and it hurts but he can't help himself, pushing up on trembling arms that are on the verge of giving out beneath him.

"If it's any consolation neither did I." He says.

Flowey looks at him, waits. Papyrus can't tell if his friend is happy to see him exactly.

"Well isn't that cute." Flowey pops underground only to emerge right next to him, a curious look on his face and maybe this is exactly what he wanted after all. Flowey always wanted things to be new.

Not dull.

Whatever it is that Papyrus is going through would be the exact opposite of dull. Undull, in fact.

* * *

 _Do you have any idea what it's like?_

 _Can your tiny intellect even phantom the extent of our suffering?_

 _Comprehend what it must mean, to not be quite dead but not nearly alive either. To be without sight or sense or being, nor time nor matter, only constant pain._

 _Would you ever understand what it means to be unexisting like us. Like him._

 _For he is within us, though there is no individuality in agony. We have no identity beyond ourselves. We are many and we speak for all, for us._

 _And we only want one thing._

* * *

"Actually that didn't really answer my question." Flowey complains, helping him sit up at least and if it were appropriate to do so Papyrus might have given him a hug.

"I don't really recall your asking a question." He says instead.

"I can't believe the surface has made you a smart ass." Flowey pouts, ridiculously exaggerated in that way only he can act. "I thought only the trash bag was like that."

"Sans!" Another spasm of pain wrecks is body with the sudden movement of trying to get up, but it's useless. All energy has left him. "Oh no, Flowey, I did something so bad. I did a horrible something."

And if he could he would be crying.

* * *

 _We_ _want_ _release_

* * *

"I find that hard to believe." Flowey scoffs, and in any other situation Papyrus would have taken that as a compliment but right now it only makes his rib cage feel tighter, crushing him.

"No, you don't understand." He grunts and then he's pushing himself up onto shaking legs regardless, ignoring the pain shooting up his spine and settling at the base of his skull. "I need to go check on him. Make sure he's ok."

"Papyrus, you don't need-"

But he's already gone, taking off down the hallway and into open air. The sun is high in the sky, so bright it blinds him for a second. He stumbles, trips, falls down the mountain in the opposite direction that Frisk did. The irony hits him simultaneously with his body hitting the ground.

Breaks open his skull on the stones, shatters his pelvis on the tree branches, and then he's at the top again, standing, stumbling, catching himself at the last second and regaining his balance before the drop.

His magic surges aimlessly, but there's no target to hit, no attacker to protect himself from.

How can it be morning already? There's no way he spend that long in the lab, is there? Papyrus doesn't know anymore, only knows he wants to get to Sans, make sure he's okay, make sure he's alive.

Make sure Papyrus hasn't fucked up the only worthwhile thing left in his life.

Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if he has to spent the rest of his life on the surface constantly fighting and struggling and in pain. So long as his friends, his family, Sans are happy, he'll happily bear it.

He has done so for ages, there's no reason he can't again.

In no time he's at their door, feeling like he just ran a marathon on legs made of noodles, barging through it. The house is silent and dark.

He ascends the staircase two steps at a time, comes to Sans' door and hesitates, hands shaking and hovering over the doorknob.

What if Sans is angry? What if he won't ever forgive him? What if he wants Papyrus to leave and not come back?

It hurts, he clutches at the thin fabric of the shirt he's wearing and it's wet with morning dew, moist from lying on the floor and in the flowers and running through the forest down the mountain and now he's here and he can't even open the door.

But there's no dust, is there?

Papyrus sighs.

His room is neater than he recalls. Sans cleaned up his broken mirror, even replaced it with a new one somehow. The sheets are folded carefully as if he hadn't slept in them. The window is closed.

So he sinks into the desk at his chair and waits for morning.

* * *

A few hours later there's a noise on the hallway, footsteps dragging themselves down the stairs like it's a chore.

Papyrus gets up, paces the length of his room a few more times, then decides putting this off will only make it worse and Sans might already hate him, no matter how much he dillydallies that fact won't just magically change.

He has done something unforgivable and now it's time to carry the consequences. Reap whatever kind of devastating storm he has sown.

The front door closes. Papyrus barely made it halfway down and Sans is gone and this must be badder than he imagined if his brother doesn't even want to see him. If his reaction to hearing Papyrus come out of his bedroom was to get out of the house as fast as he could.

It's a sure sign there's no way he can make this right.

He gets into the kitchen, opens a few cupboards aimlessly but feels too sick, too absentminded to actually eat and the entire room is spinning in slow circles, tipping like the hull of a particularly restless ship at sea. He sits down again because a cracked skull is about the only thing Papyrus can think of that could make this situation any worse, burying his face into his heads.

"You ok there, Pap?" Sans asks and he looks up so fast it is liable to give him a whiplash.

"Sans?!" He squeaks, high-pitched and desperate and like he's about to cry. His brother frowns at him, his hands full of mail.

He had gone out to check the mailbox. Of course.

"Are you feeling sick again?" Sans asks, fussing over him weirdly and Papyrus shakes his head slowly, his hand dropping onto the table.

"Sans, about last night..."

"Oh yeah." He takes his own seat, shifts through the letters without looking at him. Without acknowledging his question or what happened or how he shouldn't be able to glance at him like that, like he still cares.

Like they're still brothers. Not after what Papyrus did to him.

And then Sans looks up, does his best to smile. "Is your finger fine now?"

For a full minute Papyrus can't respond, he feels like the entire world has angled itself a certain amount of degrees to the side without anybody informing him and it's unbalancing, confusing.

"My fi-? No, Sans, Are _you_ alright?"

Still not looking at him, Sans hums in confirmation, tilting his head while he pulls out one particular envelope. It's dark brown coloring makes Papyrus want to hurl all over again.

This can't be happening.

"No, Sans, I'm serious. We need to talk about what happened last night. I didn't mean to-"

"I know." And he's opening the letter, pulling out familiar paper, eyes widening in well-known surprise. "You cut yourself. It was an accident, Frisk told me. It's fine, bro."

Then he's silent for a few seconds, the lights of his eyes scanning the text and there's that same huff of laughter as last time, the exact same reaction.

Papyrus never wished to know what that was like again, but here they are.

"It's a letter from-" Sans starts and Papyrus gets up, finishes his sentence.

"The observatory. I know."

He isn't going out for ice cream this time around.

* * *

Today is yesterday.

He repeats it to himself, over and over, laughing all the while in short bursts of uncontrollable giggles. Because this is ridiculous, this has to be. This can't be happening all over again.

Please not again.

And they are silent still but it doesn't matter when it's his own thoughts occupying the quiet instead, racing, bouncing against the inside of his skull, tearing it open.

He can't do this again.

Frisk open the doors and it's by clinging onto the last few shreds of dignity he has left that he isn't on his knees, begging, pleading for them to make it stop.

Except he knows they can't. Not this time.

"Did you do this?" He asks simply, and their eyes are wide, scared. Papyrus knows they didn't but he also knows they remember and he can't be the only one.

He can't be alone in this.

Not again.

So he holds them instead, and they are shaking too, because for once they will know what it's like to have your world fall apart around you, fragmented by a force far beyond your own.

Again.


	10. Chapter 10

"I propose we don't tell them at all." Papyrus says simply, rocking back and forth on the edge of Frisk's bed idly. Every time his feet leave the ground it's like he's floating, disconnected, and it might be the only thing keeping him sane right now. Keeping him grounded.

That must be a paradox.

'And pretend nothing is happening?' They respond, edging towards him, smiling morosely. 'That won't work. They'll notice.'

"I have the sinking notion you underestimate me, human." Papyrus laughs, fall back onto the mattress with a thud. "Telling them will be bad."

"And not telling them-" Frisk says, because he can't see their gestures now, but their voice is rough and quiet and he has a feeling they dislike using it as much as he dislikes hearing it. "Will that be any better?"

Papyrus shrugs, but it's an awkward movement while lying down so he sits up and tries again. They roll their eyes at him.

'I won't tell them.'

Their hands lay in their laps expectantly, waiting. It isn't fun to know that technically Papyrus is the adult in this situation and as such it would be his task to act responsible and take the sensible route.

He hates doing what is sensible.

"I'll tell them..." He says. "... Eventually. Not yet."

'What then?'

"I can try and figure this out on my own first."

* * *

That's what he said, of course, but it might be a lot easier said than done.

Sans isn't home when he gets there, presumably he is at the observatory, or out getting that ice cream the two of them already had.

Papyrus sits in the middle of his room on his knees and stares into his unbroken mirror, blinks at himself trying to detect a difference.

They are quite. Too quite.

"Hello?" He says, waits. He kind of feels like the idiot people often take him for, talking to himself like this. Though not to himself exactly, right? "Voices? Are you there?"

Silence.

This isn't really the right moment for them to be playing games with him, is it?

"I did what you wanted, it would be only polite for you to reciprocate..." He sighs. He wanted them to leave him alone but now he just feels like a ticking time bomb. Something that can potentially blow up at any second.

And his head hurts.

"Is it because I did? Are you trying to be nice or something? Cause it's not working." He calls against empty rooms and vacant mind spaces. They are gone. "You're not very nice at all."

No response, obviously.

Papyrus knows they'll come back eventually and this is far from over.

* * *

The least he can do is use their sudden absence to catch up on house work. He cleans the entire house 3 times and goes shopping, looking both ways before crossing the street. Then he goes into Sans' not-secret room and looks through their blueprints again, hoping against hope that maybe something new would become apparent to him.

The machine.

He knows whatever is happening has something to do with that.

With an unpleasant jerk he remembers Alphys too, and how he was supposed to call her today. He forgot, since it was actually yesterday that he needed to call but today is yesterday so that means he needs to call yester-today.

He tries to use his cell but there's no connection in the storage shed, not to mention it's kind of unpleasant anyway what with the machine humming softly in the corner.

Wait what-

He blinks, the machine is silent. Of course it is, it is not attached to anything, least of all power. Papyrus stares at it, so innocuously it sits in the same place it has sat for over a year now. Not at all much different from back Underground, where it was catching dust in a different corner of a different room.

It won't hum, because it won't work. It's that simple.

Papyrus shakes his head and goes back upstairs.

* * *

"H-hello?"

Alphys' voice sounds crackly on the other end of the receiver and Papyrus presses the phone closer to the side of his face to hear her better, pelvis leaning on the edge of the couch.

"Alphys, it's me." He says.

The ex-royal scientist lets out a heavy sigh of relief. She isn't very good at phone conversations with strangers, or that's the impression Papyrus gets at least.

"Hi Papyrus."

"I was wondering if you found anything new with the information I brought you _yesterday?_ " The last word sounds awkward, sticks to his throat like mucus refusing to come out. Papyrus hopes she won't notice.

"Hmmm, I guess... not really." She answers. "All those files really told me is that it's a prototype for a- Well, for something enabling time travel. But we already knew that."

Papyrus sighs, nodding despite not being seen by his conversation partner.

"Do you maybe know how incomplete it is?" He asks instead, using every ounce of willpower he possesses to sound casual and not like the paranoid mess he feels right now. "Like, could it maybe... function, if we worked on it."

Alphys laughs nervously. "That's the uh... interesting part. I think it used to."

"It used to what?" His head aches something dull, a throbbing in the back of his skull where his spine begins and he has to blink several times to focus.

"Used to function, Papyrus." He can hear her moving around the room, fiddling with some papers on her desk. "I think these numbers indicate it used to work, but something broke it. Or somebody."

It's a hum, soft and distant like it's coming from another room.

"Who?"

"I don't know." Alphys sighs. "I found it like this. Sans, you and I are the only ones who ever touched it, but it was broken before that so... I-I guess we'll never know?"

Though Papyrus has the sinking feeling he can make a gamble or two.

"The most important part though, is can we fix it?" He says quickly, desperately, because if it all starts and ends at the machine this might be his only hope. His only chance to get rid of them.

"No." She says, and it's like his soul becomes solid and tumbles to the bottom of his rib cage, out of his chest and to the ground, where it shatters into a million pieces. Just like that.

"No?"

"N-No, Papyrus, don't you- I've been over this before, we don't have the necessary technology to fix it. That is, there's a piece missing and I don't know where to find it. You know this."

"Right." He hums, but it feels like something is sinking inside him, crushed down by a sudden wave of despair. Fixing the machine was the grand idea, but if he really, truly, impossibly can't-

"Alphys, I-"

And then the door opens. Sans stares at him for a second before slowly closing it behind himself, wiping his feet probably only because Papyrus is looking right at him this time. He certainly never does otherwise.

"I got to go." He says and Alphys is still talking when he hangs up, wringing his hands in front of himself in absence of something better to do with them.

"Where did you go?" They say almost simultaneously, and Sans smirks.

"You go first." He says with an elaborate gesture as he plops down on the couch and stretches his legs, laying his hands behind his head. He seems to be in a good mood.

"Just a walk." Papyrus answers, coming around to sit on the only couch cushion left free. "I visited Frisk while I was at it."

"Feeling better?" His brother inquires and Papyrus nods.

"Marginally." He lies. "Your turn."

"Nothing special, just went for ice cream."

Papyrus hums in response, drumming his fingers on the edge of the seat nervously. Sans doesn't notice.

Did he get the same exact flavor is what he wonders.

"Hey, Pap." Sans speaks softly, like maybe what he's about to say is a secret. Papyrus turns his head and waits, doesn't look at his brother exactly but he isn't looking away either.

"I know you've been on edge for these past few days, what with the one-year thing and all but- It's okay. We're going to be alright. You do know that, right?"

"I do." He says, swallowing the not quite bile rising in his throat. "We're going to be alright."

They sit together in silence for a bit and it's almost nice, almost comfortable. Except the machine is humming, it's gears turning without electricity and grinding Papyrus in it's unstoppable force, destroying him into dust, sounding more and more like static with each mechanical whir.

And they wait.

"When does the job starts?" He asks, because in the quietness of their living room he can hear them, faint and distant but unmistakably there, looking for their-

"Monday." Sans says. "It's only part-time so I still get to sleep in." And he smirks, self-satisfied and pleased and Papyrus still can't ruin this.

For all the times he has felt Sans lacked in his efforts to be a good brother, Papyrus can't purposefully hurt him. It wouldn't be right.

Not after what they've both been through.

"That's nice." And he hums along to their tune.

* * *

The room has a shape this time. It is large, rectangular with tiles covering each surface and furniture that seems slightly out of proportion. With tables just a tiny bit too high for him to reach easily, or chairs that need a climb for him to sit on.

And Papyrus knows why.

The monster is in the room as well. He is talking but Papyrus can't hear him.

Because he remembers not listening to a single word his father was saying.

His attention strays elsewhere, to something goopy and redish and strange. Something the monster keeps in a jar on his desk, and never talks about.

And Papyrus is wondering what it would taste like.

He's hungry. He can't remember the last time he has eaten. He had been bad, he had gone through the door they're not supposed to enter and father had gotten mad and punished him.

Papyrus had seen things there.

But now he didn't care, because the emptiness of his insides are gnawing at him, consuming him and all that matters is if this thing is edible or not.

He stands on tiptoes, can just make out the shape of the jar and as he reaches out his fingertips he can brush the glass slightly. It's warm to the touch.

Papyrus likes warm things. Their room is always cold and Sans hogs their only blanket.

"Papyrus!" The monster says, sternly. It's his angry voice, the one Papyrus hates and he startles, knocks his palm against the jar suddenly. It tips and rolls and goes crashing down, but Papyrus manages to use his blue magic to catch it just before it hits the ground.

He smiles at that. And for a tiny second father seems proud too, one corner of his mouth pulls up into a satisfied grin.

But then he's the monster again, snatching the jar out of mid air with a frown and smacking it down on his desk again, a bang that almost breaks it for sure. Papyrus flinches.

"I'm sorry." He says, though he's not sure what for, but it's always save to assume he did something wrong.

Papyrus isn't a very good child.

"Don't play around when I'm talking to you, Papyrus." The monster says, snarls, and Papyrus wants to take a step back but doing so would be weakness and his father would only get angrier.

"Did you even hear a word I said to you?" He asks, annoyed. Papyrus is scared but shakes his head, cowers before him.

His father hits him, hard, the flat of his hand against the side of Papyrus' skull and he falls over, knocking his head into the tiles.

Papyrus sits up in bed with a start, the room spins around him in lazy circles and he has to close his eyes for a minute to make it stop, to make his spine feel attached again.

It has been ages since he's dreamt something as clear as this, more of a memory than imagination, and it's unsettling. He thought he had forgotten.

 _Exc̢e͢p҉t́ ͡s̶om͢e̡ t͘h̀ingś d͠on͟'t̨ ̡s̀tay f̛orgott̸en fo͏r͢eve̡r_

And in another room entirely the machine hums its satisfaction.

* * *

 **A bit in a delay in this one but here it is...**

 **thanks for the comments, btw 3 they're what keep me writing**


	11. Chapter 11

**Summer has ended and so has the hiatus. How was everybody's time? I hope you enjoyed yourselves. Now on with this shitshow...**

* * *

Morning comes too soon for him. Papyrus still feels like he needs hours of sleep to function normally again, overdue from all those nights he skipped in favor of more exciting things.

Now he would have nothing rather than a lifetime of rest.

But it's another day, and an other day too because it's raining and it wasn't raining yesterday or the day before that, which was also the day before that day, so that means time is certainly moving along nicely again.

At least one thing in his life is.

He gets out of bed and puts on his clothes, heads downstairs and sees what they'll have for breakfast. All the things a normal skeleton would do on a normal day.

And the machine hums away in the basement, loud enough for Papyrus to hear constantly. It whirs, static, breathes in and out in even beats that he can count to. Can set a clock to.

Except any clock set to this thing might just go backward.

He focusses instead, on his fingers and his hands and the best way to fry an egg, taught to him by the Queen herself.

Papyrus wonders how Asgore is doing.

Sans doesn't come downstairs by the time he's finished and Papyrus doesn't feel like waking him so he eats alone, contemplating on what to do today.

He thinks of his promise to Frisk. He had said he would tell them, but he has never said when or who exactly. But maybe they were right after all. Maybe alone wouldn't be the way to get out of this.

It had become a habit, he knows. And a nasty one at that. Somewhat of a compulsion maybe.

Papyrus doesn't like bothering other people with his problems.

The rain pours down outside, a torrent, but it's dark and Papyrus only sees himself reflected back in the glass. He looks tired.

A distant rumble, not the machine this time, and a few seconds later lightning cracks open the sky. He isn't going anywhere right now, so it doesn't matter.

He goes downstairs instead.

* * *

He touches it, bone to metal and if he didn't know any better Papyrus would say it radiates heath back at him. Its distant whir now a constant pitch almost akin to the human invention they call a microwave. An even sound, not as distorted as it was before and therefor way more bearable to listen to.

Maybe being close to it comforts them.

"I can't help you." He says, and it hurts because it's true. Something horrible happened he can't even begin to properly phantom yet and somehow this is all that's left behind. An unbroken machine and a million detached voices.

All that's left of an entire world.

And of course Papyrus wishes to help. He likes fixing things, when he can. He isn't always as good at it, not like when he's creating things from scratch. That's easier.

But this. This is impossible.

 _Possible?_

Their question resonates within him, grows like a flame until it's all-consuming within his head, drowning out everything else.

 _Is possible?_

Papyrus doesn't think so.

* * *

"Papyrus." Sans says, lightly. A breeze of fresh air. A sunny day in autumn.

His brother says his name like it means nothing.

"Yes?"

There's a pause, a hesitation that tells Papyrus that whatever comes next, he's not going to like it.

"Papyrus, I'm moving out."

Silence. Broken only by the machine's noise swelling, growing, expanding.

"Oh." Papyrus says, a sound of utter exhaustion mixed with surprise and a healthy dose of confusion. Sans is moving out.

Sans is leaving him.

"Is it because I-" Papyrus starts, then stops suddenly. Is it because I hurt you? It lingers in his thoughts but he hasn't hurt Sans, not in this timeline.

Except he has, hasn't he.

They've destroyed each other.

"It isn't you, it's me." Sans explains and Papyrus recognizes the line as something they heard in dramatic surface movies. Sans is leaving him and he's doing it in the most tired, cliché ridden way possible.

Of course he is.

"It's the job, I want to move closer to it. I want to-" And Papyrus can see him breaking, crumbling beneath it. One more lie and his brother might just learn. "You've not been yourself lately and I think it's just better if-"

Every sentence he starts stops halfway through. Their words have run out and they both know it.

"I understand." Papyrus smiles, grasping his brother's shoulders and Sans looks up at him with so much hurt on his face that for a moment Papyrus regrets everything.

He pulls him in, squeezes slightly and Sans clings to him, one moment of allowance that this can be ok. They will be ok.

Then Papyrus lets go and nods.

"I'll help you pack up your stuff."

* * *

The weather has cleared up. Papyrus is sitting at the table when he notices. It has cleared up and he has no excuse anymore.

Sans left. He's looking at a place right now and if it works out he'll be moving out as soon as tomorrow, the day after today or two days after yesterday. Or one day before the day after tomorrow then.

 _Today_

He ignores them, gets up and opens the door and the distinct smell of pavement after rain hits him. The world always feels cleaner after a storm. Sharper. Papyrus noticed it the first time, back when the lighting and thunder were so new to them it send Undyne into an excited frenzy.

He remembers how ready she was to fight the world back then. How ready he was to face it with her.

How things have changed.

Their house is just a little while from his, his, his all alone his now, so he decides to walk again. He might go for a drive after, just to clear his head.

 _Just be careful not to hit a lamppost now, ok?_

Their voice is off, mocking him. Their restless noise a million detached beings then flowing into one clear sound. Something Papyrus understands.

Because he belongs to them.

They're different, Sans and him. Papyrus has known this from the start. And it doesn't have anything to do with remembering. It has to do with forgetting.

Or not knowing where you come from. Just being all of the sudden.

He knocks at their door thrice, like always. He waits patiently for an answer, just praying Alphys is home alone. That will make everything so much easier.

It isn't every day you have to tell your friends you're hearing disembodied voices.

She opens the door slowly, just a crack at first as if nervous about who's there, then all the way when she notices it's just him.

Alphys has adjusted to surface life about as well as one could expect, with her history.

It's something they haven't really talked about, not openly at least, and even Papyrus himself has just pieced together the bare minimum over time.

But you don't have to be a rocket scientist to see the weight resting on her shoulders.

"Papyrus? Y-you're back already." And he blinks, looking sheepishly over his shoulder.

"You're expecting somebody else, maybe?"

"No, nobody important."

He steps past her with a grimace, wiping his feet before entering proper. No crisis is sufficient to warrant a lack of decent curtesy after all.

She closes the door behind him, before leading the way into the living room. As he had hoped, Undyne wasn't there.

"I came to talk about something important, actually." He says, waiting for her to turn around and face him and Alphys nods, gesturing to the couch.

Papyrus takes a seat with a sigh.

"Is this about the machine again?"

She sounds just the tiniest bit exasperated, like she's trying to explain something difficult to a child and normally the notion would make him annoyed, but right now he doesn't have the energy.

 _You know what they think of you, don't you?_

"Yes and no?" Papyrus tries. "I guess in a way it is."

"I told you I don't know how to fix it." Alphys says, her voice hardened by an unfamiliar resolve that has Papyrus taken aback for a second. He wants to ask what that means, but part of him fears the answer.

"You don't need to." He says instead. "It works."

Now it's her turn to be surprised, blinking at him repeatedly. "W-what?"

"The machine. It works. Or I think it does." He shrugs. "It's doing something at least."

Alphys stares at him for a moment and it's like the world shifts, pulling the rug out from beneath him. Everything becomes muddled in the blink of an eye.

"You think." She says, except it isn't her, is it? Not anymore. "You think you know something, do you?"

His head hurts.

"You think they can help. She can help."

"I don't-" He coughs, something lodged itself inside his ribcage and it crawls upwards, forcing its way into his mouth. Like bile, black and dark and he's choking despite not needing breath in the first place. Dust is pouring out of him.

" _You are a foolish one._ "

It clouds his vision in a field of grey, yellow flowers swaying in the wind and a smile as sharp as needles, with long thorns that dig into his bones.

"Foolish." He had said.

The floor is cold, and Papyrus gets up quickly, grabbing the edge of the table to keep from swaying. It's raining outside, but the clouds are already parting in the distance, a sliver of sunlight through the darkness.

It's clearing up.

The room is shrinking, expanding, folding in on itself like a paper plane, bending in weird shapes unimaginable. Papyrus stumbles to the counter, coughing ever harder.

The static is maddening.

He shoves his hand into the drawer, grasping, searching. His fingers close around the blade quickly, around the sharp end and the pain is immediate.

Papyrus gasps. The room stops doing things a room has no right to do.

And outside the rain slowly stops pouring.


	12. Service Announcement

Ok so I know you guys were probably hoping this was an update, and I'm really sorry it isn't.

Those who follow my tumblr will know, I'm kind of at an impasse with this story. Long story short, I'm not at all satisfied with how it's written up until this point.

This story was mainly inspired by House of Leaves and I really don't feel like this conveys very well in the writing?

 **I am however considering rebooting this story as a game.** A text adventure to be precise. An interactive fanfiction, if you will.

So through this update I want to see if there's any interest in that?

I'll delete this chapter after a few days, once I get the input I desire. Feel free to ask any questions you may have in the comments.

Thanks in advance and thank you for reading!


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